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3   1822  01130  3062 


Central  University  Library 

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His  pleasure  in  the  Scottisli  wunds 

Three  summer's  days  to  take."  —  Frontispiece. 


BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


SELECTED   AND   ARRANGED   BY 


HENRY   CABOT    LODGE. 


BOSTON: 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY, 

1 1    EAST  SEVENTEEXTII   STREET,   XEW    i'ORK. 

d;c  litbrrsiiUc  \3ie^g, Camiittfgc. 


r 


Copyright,  1880, 
By  HOUGHTON,  OSGOOD  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE  : 

STEREOTYPED     AND     PRINTED    BY 

H.  0.  HOUGHTON   AND   COMPANY. 


PREFACE. 


The  favor  with  which  this  collection  has  been 
received  has  seemed  to  its  publishers  to  warrant  a 
new  edition  in  a  different  form.  In  thus  offering 
it  to  a  wider  public  than  that  for  which  it  was  in- 
tended, a  few  words  are  necessary  to  explain  its 
original  purpose,  in  order  to  account  for  both  omis- 
sions and  insertions  which  would  otherwise  appear 
inexplicable. 

The  collection  was  designed  for  the  use  of  boys 
and  girls  between  the  ages  of  twelve  and  eighteen 
in  our  public  and  private  schools.  Tliis  class  of 
readers,  I  need  hardly  say,  covers  not  only  a  wide 
variety  of  age,  capacity,  and  disposition,  but  a  still 
wider  range  of  opportunity  and  association,  from 
children  who  have  every  advantage,  both  at  home 
and  in  school,  to  obtain  books  and  know  about  lit- 
erature, to  those  who  unfortunately  have  books 
only  in  school  and  must  go,  for  more  extended 
I'eading,  without  a  guide  to  our  public  libraries. 
The  poem  which  will  appeal  without  explanation 
to  one  child  is  dumb  to  another,  and   it  is   for  this 


ii  PRE  FA  CE. 

I  reason   that   this  collection  ranges  from  the   "  Sol- 

>  dier    from    Biiigen  "  and   the  "  Okl   Sergeant  "   to 

\  Milton's  "L'Allegro"  and    the   Songs  of   Shalie- 

5  speare.     If  chihlren  will  read  the  former,  or  can  be 

i  induced  to  do  so,  there  is  no  reason  why  they  can- 

}  not  be  led  on  through  all  the  intervening  stages  to 

I  the  highest  kind  of  poetry. 

I  The  main  purpose  of  the  book,  therefore,  was  of 

}  course  educational.     It  was  designed  to  breed  a  lik- 

I  ing  for  good  poetry,  and  to  suggest  more  extended 

reading  in  the  works,  both  in  prose  and  in  verse,  of 
the  best  authors.  With  these  objects,  and  for  this 
class  of  readers,  my  choice  was  somewhat  limited, 
and  the  rules  which  I  followed  in  making  tlie  se- 
lection, although  few,  required  strict  observance. 
The  first  essential  point  was  to  awaken  interest, 
without  which  all  attempts  to  teach  are  vain,  and 
this  will  explain  the  variety  in  the  style  of  the 
poems  and  in  their  arrangement.  Simplicity  of 
thought  and  diction  was  required  in  ever}'  poem 
which  was  admitted,  and  this  led  to  the  introduc- 
tion of  a  large  proportion  of  narrative  poems  or 
ballads,  which  were  also,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  best 
fitted  to  interest  children.  The  lyrics  which  were 
selected  were,  so  far  as  possible,  the  simplest  of 
their  kind,  both  in  form  and  in  idea. 

I  am  well  aware  that  a  collection  formed  on  these 
principles  is  very  far  from  comprising  all  the  best 


PRE  FA  CE. 


ballads  ami  lyrics  in  the  language,  and  I  also  know 
that  some  of  those  contained  in  the  collection  are 
inferior  to  others  whicli  have  been  omitted.  But 
many  of  our  most  beautiful  lyrics  are  too  compli- 
cated and  too  refined  in  tliought  and  expression  for 
boys  and  girls,  and  are  suited  only  to  men  and 
women  whose  minds  are  more  mature  and  culti- 
vated. Another  very  large  class  of  lyrics  of  the 
greatest  beauty  deals  wholly  with  love,  and  these 
were  too  intense  in  feeling  for  children,  especially 
in  schools  where  both  sexes  are  represented.  Still 
another  class,  a  much  smaller,  but  a  very  impor- 
tant one,  was  omitted  on  account  of  its  sectarian 
fervor.  Then,  too,  many  poems  not  of  the  high- 
est order  of  merit  were  chosen  because,  as  I  have 
said,  they  would  interest  children  when  finer  and 
more  dilhrult  ones  might  not,  and  would  thus 
serve  to  pave  the  way  and  draw  the  reailer  on 
to   better   things. 

I  believe  not  only  that  there  are  in  the  collec- 
tion many  of  the  finest  poems  of  their  kind  in  the 
language,  but  also  that  there  is  nothing  which  is 
not  good  in  itself,  simple,  true,  and  with  the  pos- 
sible exception  of  Poe's  "  Raven,"  which  has  found 
a  place  because  of  its  wide  renown  and  because  no 
other  example  would  do  anything  like  justice  to 
the  author,  nothing  that  is  not  thoroughly  whole- 
some.     The  great  difficulty  was   to  avoid  making 


IV  PREFACE. 

the  collection  too  sober  in  tone,  and  I  was  far  from 
being  satisfied  in  this  respect.  But  the  number  of 
really  humorous  poems  of  genuine  and  enduring 
merit  is  wofully  small,  most  of  them  being  either 
perfectly  ephemeral  or  of  a  kind  which  would  not 
appeal  to  children.  This  holds  true,  also,  of  light 
and  occasional  verses  and  of  satire,  all  of  which 
abound  in  English  poetry,  and  are  of  the  highest 
merit,  but  which  are,  as  a  rule,  in  their  nature  un- 
suited  to  cliildren,  and  fit  only  for  more  mature 
minds.  The  notes  are  simply  the  bare  outlines  of 
the  biography  of  each  poet,  and  were  merely  in- 
tended to  give  to  children  who  desired  it  knowl- 
edge sufficient  to  enable  them  to  obtain  more  and 
better  information. 

The  collection  has  fully  served  its  purpose  if  it 
has  tended  to  develop  a  taste  for  good  poetry,  or 
if  it  has  helped  to  open  to  children  the  splendid 
and  unbounded  resources  of  P^nglish  literature.  In 
submitting  it  to  the  public  at  large  in  its  new  foi'm, 
I  have  explained  its  origin  and  scope,  because  I  do 
not  wish  it  to  be  supposed  that  I  regard  it  as  a 
complete  or  thoroughly  representative  collection  of 
English  ballads  and  lyrics.  It  contains,  neverthe- 
less, very  many  of  the  finest  specimens  in  the  lan- 
iguage  of  that  class  of  poems  which  have  been  and 
always  will  be  an  enduring  source  of  intellectual 
ij  pleasure  and  of  gratification  to  the  imagination. 


PREFACE.  V 

Despite  the  limitations,  therefore,  which  were 
rendered  necessary  by  the  original  object  of  the 
collection,  I  venture  to  hope  that  older  readers  will 
be  glad  to  see  many  of  the  poems  in  this  volume 
brought  together  in  a  convenient  and  accessible 
form. 

H.  C.   Lodge. 
East  Point, 
Nahant,  June  15,  1882. 


COI:^TE]N"TS. 


PASS 

Chevy  Chase.     Anonymous.    Old  Ballad        ...  13 

Sir  Patrick  Spens.    Anonymous.    Old  Ballad   .        .  22 

Ariel's  Soxg.      William  ShaJcespeare.     The  Tempest     .  27 

A  Sea  Dirge.      William  Shakespeare.     The  Tempest  .  28 

Ariel's  Song.     William  Shakespeare.    The  Tempest    .  28 

SoKG.     Thomas  Heywood 28 

Song.     William  Shakespeare.     As  You  Like  It        .         .29 

Character  of  a  Happy  Life.     Sir  Henry  Wotton   .  30 

Winter.     William  Shakespeare.    Love's  Labour 's  Lost  .  31 

SoKG.      William  Shakespeare.     Merchant  of  Venice      .  32 
Fairy's    Song.      William    Shakespeare.     Midsummer 

Night's  Dream 32 

Song  of  the  Fairies.     Williarn  Shakespeare.     Midsum- 
mer Night's  Dream 33 

Puck's  Song.    William  Shakespeare.  Midsummer  Night's 

Dream 34 

Song.     William  Shakespeare.     Cymbeline       ...  35 

Song.      William  Shakespeare.     As  You  Like  It    .         .  35 

Song.      William  Shakespeare.     Cymbeline       ...  36 

Song.     William  Shakespeare.     Hamlet        ...  37 

The  Noble  Nature.    Ben  Jonson 37 

Virtue.     George  Herbert      ......  38 

To  Blossoms.    Robert  Herrick 39 

To  Lucasta,  on  Going  to  the  Wars.    Richard  Love- 
lace    40 

To  Daffodils.    Robert  Herrick 41 

Go,  Lovely  Rose!     Edmund  Waller  ....  42 

"  I  'll  Never  Love  Thee  More."  Marquis  of  Montrose  43 

L'Ali.egro.     ,Tohn  Milton 44 

[l  Penseroso.     John  Milton 50 


vm  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Song  Written  at  Sk\:   "To  all  you  Ladies  now 

ON  Land."     Charles  Sachville,  Earl  of  Dorset           .  55 

Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  1687.    John  Dryden  .  57 

Version  of  the  Nineteenth  Psalm.    Joseph  AMison  60 

The  Dying  Christlvn  to  his  Soul.    Alexander  Pope  .  61 

Solitude.     Alexander  Pope 62 

To  a  Child  of  Quality.  Matthew  Prior  ...  63 
Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard.    Thomas 

Gray 65 

The  Bard:  Pindaric  Ode.     Thomas  Gray    ...  70 

Ode  Written  in  MDCCXLVI.  William  Collins  .  75 
On  a  Favorite  Cat,  Drowned  in  a    Tub  of  Gold 

Fishes.     Thomas  Gray 76 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog.  Oliver  Gold- 
smith           77 

An  Elegy  on  that  Glory  of  her  Sex,  Mrs.  Mary 

Blaize.     Oliver    Goldsmith 79 

Loss  of  the  Royal  George.     William  Cowper        .  80 

Is  there,  for  Honest  Poverty.  Robert  Burns  .  82 
The  Solitude  of  Alexander  Selkirk.      William 

Cowper 84 

My  Heart  's  in  the  Highlands.  Robert  Burns  .  .  86 
The  Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin.     William 

Cowper 86 

My  Bonnie  Mary.    Robert  Burns 96 

The  Sleeping  Beauty.     Samuel  Rogers    ...  96 

John  Anderson.     Robert  Burns 97 

Bruce  to  his  Men  at  Bannockburn.  Robert  Burns  98 
Bruce  and  the  Abbot.     Sir  Walter  Scott.    Lord  of  the 

Isles 99 

Claud  Halcro's  Song.  Sir  Walter  Scott.  The  Pirate  102 
The  Song  of  Haroi,d  Harfager.     Sir  Walter  Scott. 

The  Pirate 103 

Hunting  Song.  Sir  Walter  Scott  ....  105 
Song:  County  Guy.     Sir  Walter  Scott.    Quentin  Dur- 

warcl 106 

Macpherson's  Farewell.     Robert  Burns .        .        .  107 

The  Poplar  Field.     William  Cowper    ....  108 

A  Wish.     Samuel  Rogers 108 

The  Banks  o'  Doon.     Robert  Bums      .        .        .        .  ]0& 


CONTENTS.  ut 


PAGE 

Evening.     Sir  Walter  Scott.     The  Doom  of  D.'vorgoil  .  110 

Song.     Sir  Walter  Scott.     Waveiiey    ....  Ill 

Glenaka.     Thomas  Campbell 113 

LocHiNVAK.  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Marmioii  .  .  .  115 
Lord  Ullin's  Daughter.  Thomas  Campbell  .  ■  117 
The  Crusader's  Return.  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Ivanhoe  119 
Elspeth's  Ballad.  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Tlie  Antiquary  120 
Hohenlinden.  Thomas  Campbell  ....  122 
Song  :  The  Cavalier.  Sir  Walter  Scott  .  .  .124 
Glee  for  King  Charles.  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Wood- 
stock            125 

The  Soldier's  Dream.     Thomas  Campbell    .        .        .  12G 

Rosabelle.    Sir  Walter  Scott.    Lay  of  the  Last  JMinstrel  127 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu.     Sir  Walter  Scott .       .        ■  129 
Love  of  Country.     Sir  Walter  Scott.    Lay  of  the  Last 

Minstrel ."        .         .  130 

Life  and  Death.     Anna  Lcetitia  Barbauld    .         .         .  131 
The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,  at  Corunna.  Charles 

Wolfe 132 

Boat  Song.     Sir  Walter  Scott.     Lady  of  the  Lake        .  133 

Sea-Song.     Allan  Cunningham     .....  135 

Song.     Sir  Walter  Scott.     Rokeby 136 

Song.     Sir  Walter  Scott.     Rokeby        ....  138 

Battle  of  the  Baltic.     Thomas  Campbell  .        .         .  139 

Ye  Mariners  of  England.     Thomas  Campbell         .  141 

Border  Ballad.     Sir  Walter  Scott.     The  Monastery   .  143 

The  Foray.     Sir  Walter  Scott 143 

The  Journey  onwards.     Thomas  Moore       .        .        .144 
Jock  of  Hazeldean.     Sir  Walter  Scott     .        .        .  140 
The  Inchcape  Hock.     Robert  Southey  ....  147 
The  Lajientation  for  Celin.    J.  G.  Lockliari.    Span- 
ish Ballads 150 

The  Pride  of  Youth.      Sir   Walter  ScotL     Heart  of 

Mid-Lothian 1,53 

She  Walks  in  Beauty.     Lord  Byron        .        .        .  153 
She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight.     William    Wnnls- 

worth 154 

Hymn  for  the  Dead.     Sir  Walter  ^cott.     Lay  of  the 

Last  Minstrel 150 

The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib.    Lord  Byron      .  157 


s  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Rebkccv's  Hymn.     Sir  Waller  Scott.     Ivanhoe  .        .  158 

Vision  OF  Uklsmazzak.  Lord  Byron  ....  159 
The  Bridal  of  Andalla.     J.  G.  Lockhart.     Spanish 

Ballads 161 

CoROXACii.     Sir  Walter  Scott.     Lady  of  the  Lake  .        .  163 

Helvkllyn.     Sir  Walter  Scott 164 

The    Lord    of    Butkago.     J.    G.   Loclhart      Spanish 

Ballads 166 

KuBLA  Khan.  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridrje  ...  167 
Bernardo  and  Alphonso.     J.  G.  Lockhart.     Spanish 

Ballads 169 

Bernardo  del  Carpio.     Felicia  Hemans   ...  172 

To  THE  Poets.     John  Keats 176 

The  Cloud.  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  ....  178 
Pko  Tatria  jMori.  Thomas  Moore  .  .  .  .181 
The    Landing    of    the    Pilgrim    Fathers.    Felicia 

Hemans     .........  132 

To  the  Memory  of  Edward  the  Black  Prince.  Sir 

Walter  Scott.     Rob  Pioy 183 

The  Isles  of  Greece.     Lord  Byron          ...  184 

Hester.     Charles  Lamb 188 

Winter.     Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 189 

To  Thomas  Moore.    Loi'd  Byron 190 

Bonny  Dundee.     Sir   Walter  Scott.     The  Doom  of  De- 

vorgoil 191 

The  Burial  March  of  Dundee.      William-  Edmond- 

stoune  Aytoiin 192 

Past  and  Present.     Thomas  Hood     ....  198 

The  Lost  Leader.    Robert  Browninf/    ....  200 

Hojie-Thoughts,  from  the  Sea.     Robert  Browning  201 

Old  Ironsides.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  .  .  .  202 
The  Wreck    of   the    Hesperus.     Henry    Wadsworth 

Longfellow 203 

The   Skeleton  in  Armor.     Henry  Wadsworth  Long- 
fellow          206 

The  Armada:  A  Fragment.  Lord  Macaulay  .  .  212 
Sir- Nicholas  at  Marston  Moor.     Winthrop  Mach- 

worth  Praed 217 

The  Execution  of  JIontrose.     William  Edmondstoune 

Aytoun 22C 


CONTENTS.  XI 

PAGE 

The  Dream  of  Argyle.      Elizabeth  H.  Whittier      .  227 
Boot  and  Saddle.     Robert  Browning  ....  229 
The  Norman  Bakox.    Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  230 
The  Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports.    Henry    Wads- 
worth  Longfellow 233 

How  they  brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent 

TO  Aix.     Robert  Browning 235 

The   Belfry   of    Bruges.     Henry    Wadsworih   Long- 
fellow          237 

HoKATius.     Lord  Macaulay 240 

Burial  of  the  Minnisink.     Henry  Wadsworth  Long- 
fellow         255 

The  Pilgrim's  Vision.     Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  .        .  256 

Paul  Reveke's  Ride.     Henry  Wadsirorth  Longfellow  261 

Lexington.     Oliver  Wendell  Holmes   ....  205 
Grandmoiher's    Story    of    Bunker    Hill    Battle. 

Oliver  Weiulell  Holmes 267 

Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns  of  Bethlehem.    Henry 

Wadsworih  Longfellow   ......  277 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp.     Robert  Broicning  278 
The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade.     Alfred  Ten- 
nyson   ..........  280 

Victor  Galbkaith.      Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  282 

The  Soldier  from  Bingen.      Caroline  E.  S.  Norton  284 
The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs.     Henry   Wadsworth 

Longfellow 288 

The  Deacon's  Masterpiece:   or,  The  Wonderful 

"  One-IIoss  Shay."     Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  .        .  290 
Valentine:  To  the  Hon.  Mary  C.  Stanhope.    Lord 

Macaulay 294 

Auf  Wiedeksehen  !    James  Russell  Lowell    .        .        .  296 
Dorothy  Q.  :    A   Fasiily   Portrait.     Oliver   Wendell 

Holmes 297 

What  Mr.  Robinson   Thinks.     James  Russell  Lowell  300 
The    Ballad  of    the    Ovstkrman.     Oliver   We?idell 

Holmes 302 

Thk  Spectre  Pig:  .\  Ballad.     Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  30-1 

A  Rhymed  Lesson.     Oliver  Wendell  Holmes      .         .  308 
The  Rose  upon  my   Balcony.       William  Makepeace 

Thackeray.     Vanity  Fair 310 


xu  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Gheex  Fields  of  England.     Arthur  Hugh  Clough      .  311 

;                          The  Dkath  of  the  Flowers.    WiUiam  Cullen  Bryant  312 

!                          The  Raven.     Edgar  Allan  Poe 314 

:'                          In  School-Days.    John  Greenleaf  Whittier          .        .  320 

'                          Aladdin.    James  Russell  Lowell  .....  322 

The  Couhiin'.     James  Russell  Lowell     ....  323 

Nuremberg.     Henry  Waclsworth  Longfellow     .        .  326 

j  The  High  Tide  on  the  Coast  of  Lincolnshire.    Jean 

i                                 Ingelow 330 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus.     Arthur  Hugh  Clough      .        .  336 
The  Fiftieth  Birthday  of  Agassiz.     Henry  Wads- 
worth  Longfellow 337 

;                          New  Year's  Eve.     Alfred  Tennyson.     In  Memoriain  339 

Break,  Brf.ak.     Alfred  Tennyson 340 

'                         A  Psalm  (jf  Life.     Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow    .  341 

I                          The  Ship.     Arthur  Hugh  Clough 342 

«  Sir  Galahad.  Alfred  Tennyson  ....  343 
>  The  Hapi'IKST  Land.  Henry  Wadsworth  I^ongfellow  .  346 
5  St.  Agnes'  Eve  Alfred  Tennyson  ....  347 
'{  The  Ropewalk.  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  .  .  348 
c  The  Forced  Recruit.  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  351 
ij  The  Cumberland.  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  .  353 
I  Jonathan  to  John.  Jaines  Russell  Lowell  .  .  355 
j  Barbara  Frietchie.  John  Greenleaf  Whittier  .  .  359 
*  The  Old  Sergeant.  Forceythe  Willson  .  .  .  362 
I  The  Arsenal  at  Springfield.  Henry  Wadsworth  Long- 
fellow    .369 

Before  Sedan.     Austin  Dobson 371 

An  Envoy  to  an  American  Lady.     Lord  Houghton  .  372 

The  End  of  the  Play.    Willia7n  Makepeace  Thackeray  373 
Say  not  the  Struggle  Nought  A\aileth.     Arthur 

Hugh  Clough 376 


BALLADS  A:N'D   LTEIOS. 


CHEVY  CHASE.i 

God  prosper  long  our  noble  King, 

Our  lives  and  safeties  all! 
A  woeful  hunting  once  there  did 

In  Chevy  Chase  befall. 

To  drive  the  deer  with  hound  and  horn 

Earl  Percy  took  the  way: 
The  child  may  rue  that  is  unborn 

The  hunting  of  that  day ! 

The  stout  Earl  of  Northumberland 

A  vow  to  God  did  make, 
His  pleasure  in  the  Scottish  woods 

Three  summer's  days  to  take; 

The  chiefest  harts  in  Chevy  Chase 
To  kill  and  bear  away. 

1  This  famous  ballad  was  written  probably  during  the  fif- 
teenth century.  It  may  refer  to  the  battle  of  Pepperden,  fought 
in  1436,  between  the  Earl  of  Northumberland  and  the  Earl 
Douglas  of  Angus,  but  this  is  uncertain.  The  Percies  and  the 
Douglas  family  were  always  coming  in  conflict,  and  this  ballad 
is  the  great  epic  of  the  continual  warfare  which  was  waged  for 
centuries  on  the  English  and  Scottish  border.  The  version  given 
here  is  from  Bisliop  Percy's  Folio  MSS.,  vol.  ii.,  p.  7. 


L 


14  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

These  tidings  to  Earl  Douglas  came 
In  Scotland  where  he  lay, 

Who  sent  Earl  Percy  present  word 
He  would  prevent  his  sport. 

The  English  Earl,  not  fearing  that, 
Did  to  the  woods  resort 

With  fifteen  hundred  bowmen  bold, 
All  chosen  men  of  might, 

Who  knew  full  well  in  time  of  need 
To  aim  their  shafts  aright. 


5  The  gallant  grey  hound  swiftly  ran 

J  To  chase  the  fallow  deer ; 

On  ]\Ionday  they  began  to  hunt 
Ere  day-light  did  appear; 

1  And  long  before  high  noon  they  had 
•:  An  hundred  fat  bucks  slain. 

J  Then  having  dined,  the  drovers  went 
i  To  rouse  the  deer  ao-ain. 


The  hounds  ran  swiftl}^  through  the  woods 

The  nimble  deer  to  take, 
And  with  their  cries  the  hills  and  dales 

An  echo  shrill  did  make. 

Lord  Percy  to  the  Quarry  went 

To  view  the  tender  deer; 
Quoth  he,  "  Earl  Douglas  promised  once 

This  day  to  meet  me  here ; 

♦*  But  if  I  thought  he  would  not  come, 
No  longer  would  I  stay." 


CHEVY  CHASE.  15 

With  that  a  brave  young  gentleman 
Thus  to  the  Earl  did  say, 

*•  Lo,  yonder  doth  Earl  Douglas  come, 
His  men  in  armor  bright, 
Full  twenty  hundred  Scottish  spears 
All  marching  in  our  sight, 

*'  All  pleasant  men  o£  Teviotdale 

Fast  by  the  river  Tweed." 
*'  O  cease  your  sports  !  "  Earl  Percy  said, 

"  And  take  your  bows  with  speed, 

*'  And  now  with  me,  my  countrymen, 
Your  courage  forth  advance  ! 
For  there  was  never  champion  yet 
In  Scotland  nor  in  France 

*'  That  ever  did  on  horseback  come, 
But  if  my  hap  it  were, 
I  durst  encounter  man  for  man. 
With  him  to  break  a  spear." 

Earl  Douglas  on  his  milk-white  steed, 

Most  like  a  Baron  bold, 
Rode  foremost  of  his  company. 

Whose  armor  shone  like  gold  : 

**  Show  me,"  said  he,  "  whose  men  you  be 
That  hunt  so  boldly  here. 
And,  without  my  consent,  do  chase 
And  kill  my  fallow  deer." 

The  first  man  that  did  answer  make 
Was  noble  Percy  he. 


16  BALLADS  AND   LYRICS. 

Who  said,  "  We  list  not  to  declare, 
Nor  show  whose  men  we  be, 

"  Yet  we  will  spend  our  dearest  blood 
Thy  chiefest  haVts  to  slay." 
Then  Douglas  swore  a  solemn  oath, 
And  thus  in  rage  did  say, 

"  Ere  thus  I  will  out-braved  be. 
One  of  us  two  shall  die ! 
I  know  thee  well !  An  Earl  thou  art, 
Lord  Percy !  So  am  I ;, 

**  But  trust  me,  Percy,  pity  't  were, 

And  great  offence,  to  kill 

Any  of  these  our  guiltless  men, 

For  they  have  done  no  ill ; 

•'  Let  thou  and  I  the  battle  try. 

And  set  our  men  aside." 
*'  Accursed  be  he!  "  Earl  Percy  said, 

"  By  whom  it  is  denied." 

Then  stepped  a  gallant  Squire  forth,  — 
Witherington  was  his  name,  — 

Who  said,  "I  would  not  have  it  told 
To  Henry  our  King,  for  shame, 

"  That  e'er  my  captain  fought  on  foot, 
And  I  stand  looking  on: 
You  be  two  Earls,"  quoth  Witherington, 
"  And  I  a  Squire  alone. 

*'  I  'II  do  the  best  that  do  I  may, 
While  I  have  power  to  stand! 


CHEVY  CHASE.  17 

While  I  have  power  to  wield  my  sword, 
I  '11  fight  with  heart  and  hand!  " 


Our  English  archers  bent  their  bows  — 
Their  hearts  were  good  and  true,  — 

At  the  first  flight  of  arrows  sent, 
Full  four  score  Scots  they  slew. 

To  drive  the  deer  with  hound  and  horn, 

Douglas  bade  on  the  bent; 
Two  Captains  moved  with  mickle  might, 

Their  spears  to  shivers  went. 

They  closed  full  fast  on  every  side, 
No  slackness  there  was  found, 

But  many  a  gallant  gentleman 
Lay  gasping  on  the  ground. 

O  Christ  !  it  was  great  grief  to  see 
How  each  man  chose  his  spear, 

And  how  the  blood  out  of  their  breasts 
Did  gush  like  water  clear! 

At  last  these  two  stout  Earls  did  meet 
Like  Captains  of  great  might ; 

Like  lions'  moods  they  laid  on  load. 
They  made  a  cruel  fight. 

They  fought  until  they  both  did  sweat. 
With  swords  of  tempered  steel, 

Till  blood  adown  their  cheeks  like  rain 
They  trickling  down  did  feel. 

•'  O  yield  thee,  Percy!  "  Douglas  said, 
"  And  in  faith  I  will  thee  bring 
2 


18  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Where  thou  shalt  high  advanced  be 
By  James,  our  Scottish  King ; 

"  Thy  ransom  I  will  freely  give, 
And  this  report  of  thee, 
Thou  art  the  most  courageous  Knic^ht 
That  ever  I  did  see." 

"No,  Douglas!  "  quoth  Earl  Percy  then , 
' '  Thy  proffer  I  do  scorn  ; 
I  will  not  yield  to  any  Scot 
That  ever  yet  was  born!  " 

With  that  there  came  an  arrow  keen 

Out  of  an  English  bow, 
Which  struck  Earl  Douglas  on  the  breast 

A  deep  and  deadly  blow  ; 

Who  never  said  more  words  than  these, 
"  Fight  on,  my  merry  men  all! 

For  why,  my  life  is  at  an  end, 
Lord  Percy  sees  my  fall." 

Then  leaving  life,  Earl  Percy  took 
The  dead  man  by  the  hand; 

And  said,  "  Earl  Douglas!  for  thy  sake 
Would  I  had  lost  my  land ! 

"  O  Christ!  my  very  heart  doth  bleed 
With  sorrow  for  thy  sake ! 
For  sure,  a  more  renowned  Knight 
Mischance  could  never  take!  " 

A  Knight  amongst  the  Scots  there  was. 
Who  saw  Earl  Douglas  die, 


CHEVY  CHASE. 

19 

And  straight  in  heart  did  vow  revenge 
Upon  the  Lord  Percy. 

Sir  Hugh  Montgomery  was  he  called, 
Who,  with  a  spear  full  bright, 

Well  mounted  on  a  gallant  steed, 
Kan  fiercely  through  the  fight, 

And  past  the  English  archers  all 
With  naught  of  dread  or  fear, 

And  through  Earl  Pei-cy's  body  then 
He  thrust  his  hateful  spear 

With  such  a  vehement  force  and  might 

That  his  body  he  did  gore, 
The  staff  ran  through  the  other  side 

A  large  cloth  yard  and  more. 

So  thus  did  both  those  Nobles  die, 
WTiose  courage  none  could  stain. 

An  English  archer  then  perceived 
The  noble  Earl  was  slain. 

He  had  a  good  bow  in  his  hand 

Made  of  a  trusty  tree  ; 
An  arrow  of  a  cloth  yard  long 

To  the  hard  head  haled  he. 

Against  Sir  Hugh  Montgomery 

His  shaft  full  right  he  set; 
The  grey  goose  wing  that  was  thereon 

In  his  heart's  blood  was  wet. 

This  fight  from  break  of  day  did  last 
Till  setting  of  the  sun, 


20  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

For  when  they  rung  the  Evening  bell 
The  Battle  scarce  was  done. 

With  stout  Earl  Percy  there  was  slain 

Sir  John  of  Egerton, 
Sir  Robert  Harcliffe  and  Sir  William, 

Sir  James  that  bold  baron ; 

And  with  Sir  George  and  with  Sir  James, 
Both  Knights  of  good  account; 

And  good  Sir  Ralph  Rabby  there  was  slain 
Whose  prowess  did  surmount. 

For  Witherington  needs  must  I  wail 

As  one  in  doleful  dumps, 
For  when  his  legs  were  smitten  off, 

He  fought  upon  his  stumps. 

And  with  Earl  Douglas  there  was  slain 

Sir  Hugh  Montgomery, 
And  Sir  Charles  Murray  that  from  field 

One  foot  would  never  flee ; 

Sir  Roger  Hever  of  Harcliffe,  too,  — 

His  sister's  son  was  he,  — 
Sir  David  Lamb  so  well  esteemed. 

But  saved  he  could  not  be  ;    . 

And  the  Lord  Maxwell  in  like  case 

With  Douglas  he  did  die  ; 
Of  twenty  hundred  Scottish  spears. 

Scarce  fifty-five  did  fly  ; 

Of  fifteen  hundred  Englishmen 
Went  home  but  fifty-three  ; 


CHEVY   CHASE.  21 

The  rest  in  Chevy  Chase  were  slain, 
Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

Next  day  did  many  widows  come 

Their  husbands  to  bewail; 
They  washed  their  wounds  in  brinish  tears, 

But  all  would  not  prevail. 

Their  bodies,  bathed  in  purple  blood, 

They  bore  with  them  away. 
They  kissed  them  dead  a  thousand  times 

Ere  they  were  clad  in  clay. 

The  news  was  brought  to  Edinborough 
Where  Scotland's  king  did  reign, 

That  brave  Earl  Douglas  suddenly 
Was  with  an  arrow  slain. 

*'  O  heavy  news!  "  Iving  James  can  say, 
"  Scotland  may  witness  be 
I  have  not  any  Captain  more 
Of  such  account  as  he! " 

Like  tidings  to  King  Henry  came 

Within  as  short  a  space, 
That  Percy  of  Northumberland 

Was  slain  in  Chevy  Chase. 

♦'  Now  God  be  with  him  !  "  said  our  king, 
"  Sith  it  will  no  better  be, 
I  trust  I  have  within  my  realm 
Five  hundred  as  good  as  he ! 

"  Yet  shall  not  Scots  nor  Scotland  say 
But  I  will  vengeance  take, 


22  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

And  be  revenged  on  them  all 
For  brave  Earl  Percy's  sake." 

This  vow  the  king  did  well  perform 

After,  on  Humble  down; 
In  one  day  fifty  knights  were  slain,  * 

With  lords  of  great  renown. 

And  of  the  rest,  of  small  account, 

Did  many  hundreds  die: 
Thus  endeth  the  hunting  in  Chevy  Chase 

Made  by  the  Earl  Percy. 

God  save  our  King,  and  bless  this  land 
With  plenty,  joy,  and  peace; 

And  grant  henceforth  that  foul  debate 
'Twixt  noble  men  may  cease! 

Anonymous. 

Old  Ballad. 


SIR  PATRICK   SPENS.i 

The  king  sits  in  Dunfermline  town, 
Drinking  the  blude-red  wine: 
"  O  where  will  I  get  a  skeely  skipper 
To  sail  this  new  ship  of  mineV  " 

1  This  is  an  old  Scotcli  ballad  of  great  antiquity.  There  is  no 
historical  incident  which  corresponds  exactly  to  that  narrated  in 
the  ballad,  but  the  stor\-  belongs  to  tlie  period  of  Alexander  the 
Third,  of  Scotland,  who  died  in  1285,  and  whose  daughter  mar- 
ried Eric,  King  of  Norway.  The  daughter  of  Eric  by  this  mar- 
riage, who  was  named  Margaret  and  called  the  maid  of  Norway, 
became  the  heiress  of  the   Scottish  crown,  and  an   effort  was 


SIR  PATRICK  SPENS.  23 

O  up  and  spake  an  eldern  knight, 
Sat  at  the  king's  right  knee : 
**  Sir  Patrick  Spens  is  the  best  sailor 
That  ever  sailed  the  sea." 

Our  king  has  written  a  braid  letter, 

And  sealed  it  with  his  hand, 
And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 

Was  walking  on  the  strand. 

•'  To  Noroway,  to  Noroway, 
To  Noroway  o'er  the  £aem ; 
The  king's  daughter  of  Noroway, 
'Tis  thou  maun  bring  her  hanae!  " 

The  first  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 

Sae  loud,  loud  laughed  he, 
The  neist  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read. 

The  tear  blindit  his  e'e. 

"  O  wha  is  this  has  done  this  deed. 
And  tauld  the  king  o'  me, 
To  send  us  out  at  this  time  of  the  year. 
To  sail  upon  the  sea? 

**  Be  it  wind,  be  it  weet,  be  it  hail,  be  it  sleet, 
Our  ship  must  sail  the  faem; 
The  king's  daughter  of  Noroway, 
'T  is  we  must  fetch  her  hame." 

made  to  marry  her  to  Edward,  son  of  Edward  I.  of  England ;  bu: 
she  died  before  her  return  to  Scotland.  She  is  the  princess  re- 
ferred to  ill  the  ballad,  and  for  whom  Sir  Patrick  Spens  was 
sent,  according  to  the  tradition.  The  version  given  iiere  is 
taken  from  Sir  Walter  Scott's  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border, 
vol.  i.,  p.  3. 


tfB? 


24  BALLADS  AND  LrBICS. 

They  hoysed  theii-  sails  on  Monenday  morn 

Wi'  a'  the  speed  they  may ; 
They  hae  landed  in  Noroway 

Upon  a  Wodensday. 

They  hadna  been  a  week,  a  week 

In  Noroway,  but  twae, 
When  that  the  lords  o'  Noroway 

Began  aloud  to  say: 

"Ye  Scottishmen  spend  a'  our  king's  gowd 

And  a'  our  queene's  fee." 
"  Ye  lie,  ye  lie,  ye  liars  loud! 

Fu'  loud  I  hear  ye  lie! 

"  For  I  hae  brought  as  much  white  monie 
As  gane  my  men  and  me. 
And  I  brought  a  half-fou  o'  gude  red  gowd 
Out  oure  the  sea  wi'  me. 

"  Make  ready,  make  ready,  my  merry  men  a'! 

Our  gude  ship  sails  the  morn." 
*'  Now,  ever  alake!  my  master  dear, 

I  fear  a  deadly  storm ! 

'*  I  saw  the  new  moon,  late  yestreen, 
Wi'  the  auld  moon  in  her  arm; 
And  if  we  gang  to  sea,  master, 
I  fear  we  'U  come  to  harm." 

They  hadna  sailed  a  league,  a  league, 

A  league,  but  barely  three. 
When  the  lift  grew  dark,  and  the  wind  blew  loud, 

And  gurly  grew  the  sea. 


SIR  PATRICK  SPENS.  25 

The  ankers  brak,  and  the  topmasts  lap, 

It  was  sic  a  deadly  storm  ;^ 
And  the  waves  came  o'er  the  broken  ship 

Till  a'  her  sides  were  torn. 

"  O  where  will  I  get  a  gude  sailor 
To  take  my  helm  in  hand, 
Till  I  get  up  to  the  tall  topmast, 
To  see  if  I  can  spy  land?  " 

"  O  here  am  I,  a  sailor  gude, 
To  take  the  helm  in  hand, 
Till  you  go  up  to  the  tall  topmast,  — 
But  I  fear  you  '11  ne'er  spy  land." 

He  hadna  gane  a  step,  a  step, 

A  step,  but  barely  ane, 
When  a  boult  flew  out  of  our  goodly  ship. 

And  the  salt  sea  it  came  in. 

"  Gae  fetch  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith. 
Another  o'  the  twine, 
And  wap  them  into  our  ship's  side 
And  let  na  the  sea  come  in." 

They  fetched  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith. 

Another  o'  the  twine, 
And  they  wapped  them  roun'  that  gude  ship's  side, 

But  still  the  sea  came  in. 

O  laith,  laith  were  our  gude  Scots  lords 

To  weet  their  cork-heeled  shoon ! 
But  lang  or  a'  the  play  was  played, 

They  wat  their  hats  aboon. 


26  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

And  mony  was  tlie  feather-bed 

That  floated  on  the  faem, 
And  mony  was  the  gude  lord's  son 

That  never  mair  cam  hame. 

The  ladyes  wrange  their  fingers  white 
The  maidens  tore  their  hair; 

A'  for  the  sake  of  their  true  loves, 
For  them  they  '11  see  na  mair. 

O  lang,  lang  may  the  ladyes  sit, 
Wi'  their  fans  into  their  hand, 

Before  they  see  Sir  Patrick  Spens 
Come  sailing  to  the  strand! 

And  lang,  lang  may  the  maidens  sit, 
Wi'  their  gowd  kaims  in  their  hair, 

A'  waiting  for  their  ain  dear  loves, 
For  them  they  '11  see  na  mair. 

O  forty  miles  off  Aberdeen 
'T  is  fifty  fathoms  deep, 
And  there  lies  gude  Sir  Patrick  Spens 
Wi'  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feet. 

Anonymous. 

Old   Ballad, 


ARIEL'S  SONG.  27 


ARIEL'S  SONG. 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 

And  then  take  hands: 
Courtsied  when  you  have  and  kiss'd 

The  wild  waves  whist, 
Foot  it  featly  here  and  there; 

And,  sweet  sprites,  the  burthen  bear. 
Burthen:  Hark,  hark  1 

Bow-wow. 
The  watch- dogs  bark  : 

Bow-wow. 
Hark,  hark  !  I  hear 
The  strain  of  strutting  chanticleer 
Cry,  Cock-a-diddle-dow. 

William  Shakespeare.^ 

The  Tempest. 

1  William  Shakespeare.  Verj'  little  is  known  in  regard  to 
Shakespeare's  life.  He  was  the  son  of  John  and  Mary  Shake- 
speare, of  Stratford-upon-Avon,  where  he  was  born  about  April 
23,  1564.  In  his  eighteenth  year  he  married  Anne  Hathaway,  of 
Shotterj',  a  neighboring  village.  His  wife  was  eight  years  older 
than  he,  and  tradition  says  that  the  marriage  was  an  unhappy 
one.  About  the  year  1587  he  left  Stratford  to  seek  his  fortune 
in  London  as  an  actor  and  playwright.  In  1589  he  became  a 
partner  in  the  Blackfriars  Theatre.  He  prospered  in  London, 
nade  money,  and  secured  a  competence,  purchased  property,  about 
tiie  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century,  in  Stratford,  and  soon 
after  returned  there  to  live,  a  rich  man  for  those  days.  There  in 
his  native  village  he  died  of  a  violent  fever  on  April  23,  1616,  his 
fifty-third  birthday,  probably,  and  while  still  in  the  prime  of  life. 
He  was  buried  in  the  parish  church  and  his  tomb  remains  unal- 
tered. Between  his  arrival  in  London  and  his  death  at  Stratford 
he  wrote  the  marvellous  plays,  and  hardly  less  marvellous  son- 
nets, which  prove  him  to  have  been  the  greatest  writer  of  any 
age,  nation,  or  language.  The  poems  in  this  collection  are  all 
kakeu  from  the  plays  in  which  they  occur. 


28 


BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


A  SEA  DIRGE. 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies; 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made ; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes* 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea  change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell: 
Hark  I  now  I  hear  them,  —  Ding-dong,  bell. 
William  Shakespeare. 

The  Tempest, 


ARIEL'S  SONG. 


Where  the  bee  sucks  there  suck  I: 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie; 
There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry. 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 
After  summer  merrily. 
Merrily,  merrily  shall  I  live  now, 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 
William  Shakespeare. 

•     The  Tempest. 


SONG. 

Pack,  clouds,  away,  and  welcome  day, 
With  night  we  banish  sorrow; 

Sweet  air,  blow  soft;   mount,  larks,  aloft 
To  give  my  Love  good-morrow  ! 

Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind, 
Notes  from  the  lark,  I  '11  borrow ; 


SONG.  29 

Bird,  prune  thy  wing,  nightingale,  sing, 
To  give  ray  Love  good-morrow; 
To  give  my  Love  good-morrow 
Notes  from  them  both  I'll  borrow. 

Wake  from  tby  nest,  Robin-red-breast; 

Sing,  bii'ds,  in  every  furrow; 
And  from  each  hill  let  music  shrill 

Give  my  fair  Love  good-morrow  ! 
Blackbird  and  thrush  in  every  bush. 

Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow  ! 
You  pretty  elves,  amongst  yourselves 
Sing  my  fair  Love  good-morrow; 
To  give  my  Love  good-morrow 
Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow  ! 

Thomas  Heywood.* 


SONG. 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 

Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 

And  turn  his  merry  note 

Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat. 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither: 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 

1  Thomas  Heywood  was  an  actor  and  a  prolific  dramatist 
»nd  prose  writer  of  the  Elizabethan  school,  who  flourished  iu 
London  during  the  reigns  of  Elizabeth,  James  I.,  and  Charles  I. 
His  fame  rests  upon  his  plays,  of  which  he  said  he  had  writteh 
ivhoUy  or  in  part  no  less  than  two  hundred  and  twenty. 


30  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Seeking  the  food  he  eats 
And  pleased  with  what  lie  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither  : 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

William  Shakespeare. 
As  You  Like  It 


CHARACTER  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE. 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
That  serveth  not  another's  will; 
Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thought 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill! 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are, 
Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death, 
Not  tied  unto  the  world  with  care 
Of  public  fame,  or  private  breath; 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise, 
Or  vice;  who  never  understood 
How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise; 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good: 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumors  freed, 
Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat; 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 
Nor  ruin  make  accusers  great; 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend; 
And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  well-chosen  book  or  friend ; 


WINTER.  31 

This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 
Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall; 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands; 
And,  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 

Sir  Henry  Wottox.^ 


WINTER. 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail 

And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail, 

When  blood  is  nipp'd  and  ways  be  foul, 

Then  niglitly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

Tu-whit ; 

Tu-wlio,  a  merry  note, 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow 

And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw 

1  Sir  Henry  Wotton  was  born  at  Boughton  Hall,  Kent 
(England),  in  15G8.  He  was  educated  at  Oxford,  where  he 
showed  a  taste  for  poetry.  After  graduation  he  was  employed 
in  the  diplomatic  service  and  passed  nine  years  on  the  Continent. 
On  his  return  he  became  secretary  to  tlie  Earl  of  Essex,  and  re- 
tired to  Italy  when  his  patron  fell  from  power  and  was  beheaded. 
He  again  returned  to  England  on  the  accession  of  James  I.,  who 
knighted  him  and  employed  him  on  several  important  foreign 
missions.  He  was  made  Provost  of  Eton  College  in  1027,  and 
retained  thisofiice  until  his  death,  in  1039.  He  is  best  known  as 
1  statesman  and  diplomatist.  His  prose  writings  included  polit- 
ical essays  and  monioirs.  His  poems  were  composed  solely  for 
his  own  amusement,  liiit  several  of  them,  like  tiiat  in  the  text, 
have  great  beauty  of  thuuglit. 


32  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 

And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw, 
When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

Tu-whit; 
Tu-who,  a  merry  note. 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

William  Shakespeare. 

Love's  Labour  's  Lost. 


SONG. 

Tell  me  where  is  fancy  bred, 

Or  in  the  heart  or  in  the  head  ? 

How  begot,  how  nourished  ? 
Reply,  reply. 

It  is  engender 'd  in  the  eyes, 

With  gazing  fed;  and  fancy  dies 

In  the  cradle  where  it  lies. 

Let  us  all  ring  fancy's  knell: 
I  '11  begin  it,  —  Ding-dong,  bell. 

William  Shakespeare. 
Merchant  of  Venice 


FAIRY'S  SONG. 

Over  hill,  over  dale. 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier, 
Over  park,  over  pale. 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 
I  do  wander  everywhere. 
Swifter  than  the  moon's  sphere; 


SONG  OF  THE  FAIRIES.  33 

i 

And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen, 
To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green. 
The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be: 
In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see ; 
Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favors. 
In  those  freckles  live  their  savors: 
I  must  go  seek  some  dewdrops  here 
And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 
Farewell,  thou  lob  of  spirits;  I  '11  be  gone: 
Our  queen  and  all  our  elves  come  here  anon. 
William  Shakkspkare. 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 


SONG   OF   THE   FAIRIES. 

You  spotted  snakes  with  double  tongue, 
Thorny  hedgehogs,  be  not  seen  ; 

Newts  and  blind-worms,  do  no  wrong, 
Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen. 
Philomel,  with  melody 
Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby  : 

Lulla,  luUa,  lullaby,  lulla,  luUa,  lullaby  : 
Never  harm, 
Nor  spell  nor  charm, 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh  ; 
So  good-night,  with  lullaby. 

jj  Weaving  spiders,  .come  not  here  ; 

I  Hence,  you  long-legg'd  spinners,  hence! 

?.  Beetles  black,  approach  not  near; 

!Worm  nor  snail,  do  no  offence. 
Philomel,  with  melody,  etc. 
I  William  Siiakkspkakk. 

Midsummer  Night's  Bream. 
» 


34  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


PUCK'S   SONG. 

Now  the  hungry  lion  roars, 

And  the  wolf  behowls  the  moon  ; 
Whilst  the  heavy  ploughman  sriores, 

All  with  weary  task  fordone. 
Now  the  wasted  brands  do  glow, 

Whilst  the  screech-owl,  screeching  loud, 
Puts  the  wretch  that  lies  in  woe 

In  remembrance  of  a  shroud. 
Now  it  is  the  time  of  night 

That  the  graves  all  gaping  wide, 
Every  one  lets  forth  his  sprite 

In  the  church-way  paths  to  glide: 
And  we  fairies,  that  do  run 

By  the  triple  Hecate's  team, 
From  the  presence  of  the  sun. 

Following  darkness  like  a  dream, 
Now  are  frolic:  not  a  mouse 
Shall  disturb  this  hallow'd  house: 
I  am  sent  with  brooin  before, 
To  sweep  the  dust  behind  the  door. 

William  Shakespeare. 
Midsummer  NighVs  Dream. 


SONG. 

Hark,  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings. 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise. 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies  ; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 


SONG.  35 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes: 
With  everything  that  pretty  is, 
My  lady  sweet,  arise; 
Arise,  arise. 

William  Shakespeare. 

Cymbeline. 


SONG. 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude ; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh-ho!  sing,  heigh-ho!  unto  the  green  holly: 
^Io>t  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly: 
Then,  heigh-ho,  the  holly! 

This  life  is  most  jolly. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot : 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remember'  d  not. 
Heigh-ho!  sing,  heigh-ho!  unto  the  green  holly: 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly 
Then,  hei;4h-ho,  the  holly ! 
This  life  is  most  jolly. 

William  Shakespeakk. 

As  You  Like  It. 


36  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


SONG. 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun, 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages  ; 

Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 
Home  art  gone,  and  ta'en  thy  wages: 

Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must. 

As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great  ; 

Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke  ; 
Care  no  more  to  clothe  and  eat  ; 

,To  thee,  the  reed  is  as  the  oak  : 
The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 
All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  lightning-flash, 
Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder- stone  ; 

Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash  ; 
Thou  hast  finish'd  joy  and  moan  : 

All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 

Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 

No  exorciser  harm  thee! 
Nor  no  witchcraft  charm  thee ! 
Ghost  unlaid  forbear  thee! 
Nothing  ill  come  near  thee ! 
Quiet  consummation  have! 
And  renowned  be  thy  grave ! 

William  Shakespeare. 

Cymbeline. 


THE  NOBLE  NATURE.  37 


SONG. 

How  should  I  your  true  love  know 

From  another  one  ? 
By  his  cockle  hat  and  staff, 

And  his  sandal  shoon. 

He  is  dead  and  gone,  lady. 

He  is  dead  and  gone ; 
At  his  head  a  grass-green  turf, 

At  his  heels  a  stone. 

White  his  shroud  as  the  mountain  snow 

Larded  with  sweet  flowers  ; 
Which  bcwept  to  the  grave  did  go 
With  true-love  showers. 

William  Shakespeare. 

Hamlet. 


THE  NOBLE   NATURE. 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 
In  bulk,  doth  make  man  better  be; 
Or  standing  long  an  oak,  three  hundred  year, 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sere  : 
A  lily  of  a  day 
Is  fairer  far  in  May, 
Although  it  fall  and  die  that  ni^dit  — 
It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  Light. 
In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  see  ; 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 

Ben  Jonson.* 

I  Ben  Jonsox  was  born  in  Westminster  in  1573.     His  family 


38  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


VIRTUE. 

Sweet  Day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky, 
The  dew  shall  Aveep  thy  fall  to-night ; 

For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  Rose,  whose  hue  angry  and  brave 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye. 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave. 

And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  Spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  rosee, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie, 
My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes. 

And  all  must  die. 

was  of  humble  condition  and  he  appears  to  have  been  taught  the 
trade  of  a  bricklaj'er.  He  received  his  education  at  Westminster 
Scliool,  and  then  went  to  Cambridge.  He  did  not  remain  at  the 
university,  however,  more  than  a  month,  but  turned  soldier  in  his 
sixteenth  year  and  served  in  the  wars  in  the  Low  Countries,  where 
he  gained  distinction  by  his  bravery.  When  he  was  nineteen 
he  returned  to  England,  married,  and  became  an  actor,  and 
then  a  playwright.  He  was  a  friend  of  Shakespeare,  and  next 
to  him,  though  at  long  distance,  the  most  famous  of  the  brilliant 
school  of  Elizabethan  dramatists.  In  1616  he  was  made  poet- 
laureate  of  England,  and  died  in  1637.  He  wrote  many  plays, 
of  which  the  best  and  most  famous  are  his  early  comedies.  He 
was  a  witty,  agreeable  man,  hot-tempered  and  quarrelsome,  and 
always  in  conflict  with  his  literary  brethren.  He  was  also  a  free 
liver,  jovial  and  extravagant,  and  given  to  a  profuse  hospitality, 
so  that  despite  his  position  as  poet-laureate,  and  the  success  of 
his  pla3's,  he  ^vas  always  in  money  difficulties,  and  died  in  ex- 
treme poverty.  Besides  his  plays,  he  wrote  many  short  poems 
of  great  beauty  of  thought,  language,  and  expression,  of  which 
the  one  given  in  this  collection  is  an  admirable  example. 


TO   BLOSSOMS.  39 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 
Like  season'd  timber,  never  gives  ; 
But,  thougli  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal. 
Then  chiefly  lives. 
George  Herbert.^ 


TO   BLOSSOMS. 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree. 

Why  do  ye  fall  so  fast  ? 

Your  date  is  not  so  past, 
But  you  may  stay  yet  here  a  while, 

To  blush  and  gently  smile; 
And  go  at  last. 

What,  were  ye  born  to  be 

An  hour  or  half's  del?ght; 

And  so  to  bid  good-night  ? 
'T  was  pity  Nature  brought  ye  forth 

Merely  to  show  your  worth, 

And  lose  you  quite. 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave: 

^  George  Herbert  was  a  descendant  of  the  Earls  of  Pem- 
broke and  younger  brother  of  the  famous  Lord  Herbert  of  Clier- 
bury.  He  was  born  at  Montgomery  Castle  in  Wales,  in  l.j!):3, 
and  was  educated  at  Westminster  School  and  at  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge.  After  graduation  he  took  holy  orders,  became  a 
minister  of  the  Established  Church  and  prebendary  of  Layton. 
In  1G;30  he  was  presented  by  King  Charles  I.  to  the  living  of 
Bemerton,  and  died  while  still  a  young  man,  in  1G32.  He  wrote 
a  great  deal,  both  prose  and  verse,  but  always  on  religious  and 
moral  subjects,  and  was  a  man  of  gentle  and  devout  nature  and 
Dure  life. 


40  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

And  after  they  have  shown  their  pi'ide, 
Like  you,  a  while,  they  glide 
Into  the  grave. 

Robert  Hekrick.^ 


ro   LUCASTA,    ON   GOING  TO   THE   WARS 

Tell  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind, 

That  fi'om  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind, 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you  too  shall  adore; 
I  could  not  love  thee.  Dear,  so  much. 

Loved  I  not  Honor  more. 

Richard  Lovelace. '^ 

1  RoBKRT  Heerick  was  born  in  London  in  1591.  He  was  a 
student  at  Cambridge,  took  orders,  and  was  presented  by  Charles 
I.  to  the  living  of  Dean  Prior  in  Devonshire  in  1G29.  He  was 
deprived  of  his  living  by  Cromwell  in  1648.  He  then  returned 
to  London  and  lived  in  retirement,  believing  his  connection  with 
the  church  to  be  wholh'  severed,  but  on  the  restoration  of  Charles 
n.  in  IGGO  he  was  reinstated  in  his  living,  which  he  held  until 
his  death,  about  the  year  1674-  He  was  eminent  both  as  a  divine 
and  as  a  poet.  His  poems  are  chiefly  secular  and  manj^  very 
liglit,  but  it  is  as  the  author  of  them  that  he  is  chietlj^  remem- 
bered, although  lie  wrote  some  verses  on  sacred  subjects.  Almost 
all  Iiis  poems  are  very  short,  but  they  are  very  perfect  and 
highly  finished  and  many  arc  among  the  very  best  of  their  kind. 

2  Richard  Lovelace,  the  son  of  Sir  William  Lovelace,  of 


TO   DAFFODILS.  41 


TO  DAFFODILS. 

Fair  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon: 
As  yet  the  early-rising  sun 

Has  not  attain'd  his  noon. 
Stay,  stay, 

Until  the  hasting  day 
Has  run 

But  to  the  even-song ; 
And,  having  prayed  together,  we 

Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you, 

We  have  as  short  a  spring; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 
As  you,  or  any  tiling. 
We  die, 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away, 
Like  to  the  summer's  rain  ; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew, 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 

Robert  Herrick. 

Woolwich,  Kent,  was  born  in  1618.  He  came  of  age  just  at 
the  outbreak  of  the  civil  war  between  king  and  Parliament. 
He  at  once  embraced  the  royal  cause,  and  after  its  defeat  took 
service  with  the  king  of  France  and  commanded  a  regiment 
when  he  was  wounded  at  Dunkirk.  He  returned  to  England 
only  to  be  thrown  into  prison,  and  after  his  release  lingered  in 
London  in  ob-curity  and  poverty,  and  died  tliere  in  1658,  a  vic- 
tim to  the  political  troubles  of  the  time.  He  was  a  handsome, 
gallant  cavalier,  and  a  good  soldier  as  well  as  a  poet.  Most  of 
nis  poems  have  little  merit,  but  there  are  one  or  two  besides  thai 
^iven  here  which  have  preserved  his  name  from  oblivion. 


42  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


GO,  LOVELY  ROSE. 

Go,  lovely  Rose! 
Tell  her,  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 

That  now  she  knows. 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee. 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

Tell  her  that 's  young 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide, 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired: 

Bid  her  come  forth, 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired. 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die!  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee: 
How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair  ! 

Edmund  Waller.^ 

1  Edmund  Waller  was  born  in  1605.  He  was  of  good  fam- 
ily, a  connection  of  both  John  Hampden  and  Oliver  Cromwell, 
(ind  was  a  man  of  property.  He  was  educated  at  Eton  and  Cam- 
bridge, entered  Parliament  in  1G21,  and.  with  occasional  inter- 
vals, continued  there  through  life,  being  elected  the  last  time  in 
1685,  as  member  for  Saltash  in  the  onlj'  Parliament  of  James 
II.  In  1043  he  was  discovered  in  a  plot  against  the  Long  Par- 
liament, made  abject  submission,  was  fined  ^10,000,  and  forced 
into  exile.     He  returned  in  10.53,  and  made  terms  with  Crom- 


Go,  lovely  Rose."     See  p.  42- 


"I'LL  NEVER  LOVE   THEE  MORE."      43 

"I'LL  NEVER  LOVE  THEE  MORE." 
I. 

My  dear  and  only  love,  I  pray 

That  little  world  of  thee 
Be  governed  by  no  other  sway 

Than  purest  monarchy; 
For  if  confusion  have  a  part, 

Which  virtuous  souls  abhor, 
And  hold  a  synod  in  thine  heart, 

I  '11  never  love  thee  more. 


As  Alexander  I  will  reign, 

And  I  will  reign  alone; 
My  thoughts  did  evermore  disdain 

A  rival  on  my  throne. 
He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  deserts  are  small. 
That  dares  not  put  it  to  the  touch, 

To  gain  or  lose  it  all. 


But  I  will  reign  and  govern  still, 

And  always  give  the  law, 
And  have  each  subject  at  my  will, 

And  all  to  stand  in  awe; 
But  'gainst  my  batteries  if  1  find 

Thou  kick,  or  vex  me  sore, 
As  that  thou  set  me  up  a  blind, 

I  '11  never  love  thee  more. 

well,  by  whom  he  was  protected.  On  the  Restoration  he  ngain 
changed  sides,  and  made  his  peace  with  Charles  II.,  during 
whose  reign  he  continued  to  flourish.  He  died  in  1087.  As  a 
politician  he  was  sharp,  mean,  and  time-serving;  as  a  poet, 
graceful  and  witty.     He  wrote  much,  both  prose  and  verse. 


44  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

IV. 

And  in  the  empire  of  thine  heart, 

Where  I  shoukl  solely  be, 
If  others  do  pretend  a  part, 

Or  dare  to  vie  with  me, 
Or  if  committees  thou  erect, 

And  go  on  such  a  score, 
I  '11  laugh  and  sing  at  thy  neglect, 

And  never  love  thee  more. 

V. 

But  if  thou  wilt  prove  faithful,  then. 

And  constant  of  thy  word, 
I  '11  make  thee  glorious  by  my  pen, 

And  famous  by  my  sword  ; 
I  '11  serve  thee  in  such  noble  ways 

Was  never  heard  before ; 
I  '11  crown  and  deck  thee  all  with  bays. 

And  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Marquis  of  Montrose.' 


L'ALLEGRO. 


Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight  born, 
In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 

1  James  Grahame,  Marquis  of  Montrose,  was  born  at  Edin- 
burgh in  1612.  He  took  up  arms  for  the  king  in  the  civil  wars, 
and  was  made  commander-in-chief  of  the  Scottish  forces  b}- 
Charles  I.  in  164:4.  After  a  campaign  of  great  brilliancy'  he 
was  finally  defeated  by  the  Covenanters  under  Leslie  at  Fhilip- 
haugh,  in  1645.  He  fled  to  the  Continent,  but  soon  returned  to 
Scotland  and  again  took  arras.  He  was  defeated,  taken  prisoner, 
and  executed  at  Edinburgh  in  May,  1650.  He  was  the  most  re- 
markable and  the  most  successful  of  the  Cavalier  generals. 


L'ALLEGRO.  45 

'Mongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shrieks,  and  sights  un- 
holy ! 
Find  out  some  uncouth  cell 

Where  brooding  Darkness  spreads  his  jealous  wings 
And  the  night-raven  sings; 

There  under  ebon  shades,  and  lovv-brow'd  rocks 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks, 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell. 

But  come,  thou  Goddess  fair  and  free, 

In  heaven  yclep'd  Euphrosyne, 

And  by  men,  heart-easing  Mirth, 

Whom  lovely  Venus  at  a  birth 

With  two  sister  Graces  more 

To  ivy-crownfed  Bacchus  bore: 

Or  whether  (as  some  sager  siiicj) 

The  frolic  wind  that  breathes  the  spring, 

Zephyr,  with  Aurora  playing. 

As  he  met  her  once  a-Maying, 

Thei-e  on  beds  of  violets  blue 

And  fresh-blown  roses  wash'd  in  dew 

Fill'd  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair, 

So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair. 

Haste  thee.  Nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 

Jest,  and  youthful  jollity. 

Quips,  and  cranks,  and  wanton  wiles, 

Nods,  and  becks,  and  wreathed  smiles 

Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek 

And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek  ; 

Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 

And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides,  — 

Come,  and  trip  it  as  you  go 

On  the  light  fantastic  toe  ; 

And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 


16  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

The  mountain-nymph,  sweet  Liberty; 
And  if  I  give  thee  honor  due, 
Mirth,  atlmit  me  o£  thy  crew, 
To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 
In  unreprovfed  pleasures  free; 
To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight 
And  singing  startle  the  dull  night 
From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies 
Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise  ; 
Then  to  come,  in  spite  of  sori-ow, 
And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow 
Through  the  sweet-briar,  or  the  vine, 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine: 
AVhile  the  cock  with  lively  din 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin, 
And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door, 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before: 
Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 
Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn. 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill, 
Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill. 
Sometime  walking,  not  unseen, 
By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 
Right  against  the  eastern  gate 
Where  the  great  Sun  begins  his  state 
Robed  in  flames  and  amber  light, 
Tlie  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight; 
While  the  ploughman,  near  at  hand. 
Whistles  o'er  the  furrow'd  land, 
And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe, 
And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe, 
And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 
Under  the  Jiawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures 
Whilst  the  landscape  round  it  measures; 


■  ■«'■*'»  "«^-'-— "J"-"  »"^  ■'-"»*'-■■'*  ^  •"     ■— 


L'ALLEGRO.  47 

Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  gray, 
Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray; 
Mountains  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  laboring  clouds  do  often  rest; 
Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied. 
Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide; 
Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 
Bosom'd  high  in  tufted  trees, 
Where  perhaps  some  Beauty  lies, 
The  cynosure  of  neighboring  eyes. 
Hard  by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 
From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 
Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis,  met. 
Are  at  their  savory  dinner  set 
Of  herbs  and  other  country  messes 
Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses; 
And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves 
With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves ; 
Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead, 
To  the  tann'd  haycock  in  the  mead. 

Sometimes  with  secure  delight 
The  upland  hamlets  will  invite, 
When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 
And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 
To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid, 
Dancing  in  the  chequer'd  shade; 
And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 
On  a  sun-shine  holy-day. 
Till  the  live-long  dayliglit  fail ; 
Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale. 
With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat. 
How  faery  Mab  the  junkets  eat; 
She  was  pinch'd  and  pull'd,  she  said  ; 
And  he,  by  friar's  lantern  led. 
Tells  how  the  drudging  Goblin  sweat 


18     .  BALLADS  AND  LYRLCS. 

To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set, 
When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 
His  shadowy  flail  hath  thresh'd  the  corn 
That  ten  day-laborers  could  not  end; 
Then  lies  him  down  the  lubber  fiend. 
And,  stretch'd  out  all  the  chimney's  length. 
Basks  at  the  fire  his  liairy  strength; 
And  crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings, 
Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 

Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep, 
By  whispering  winds  soon  luU'd  asleep. 

Tower 'd  cities  please  us  then, 
And  the  busy  hum  of  men. 
Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold 
In  weeds  of  peace  high  triumphs  hold. 
With  stoi'e  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 
Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win  her  grace,  whom  all  commend. 
There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 
In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear, 
And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry; 
With  mask,  and  antique  pageantry; 
Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream. 
Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon. 
If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on, 
Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child, 
Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

And  ever  against  eating  cares 
Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs 
Married  to  immortal  verse. 
Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce 
In  notes,  with  many  a  winding  bout 
Of  linkfed  sweetness  long  drawn  out, 


L' ALLEGRO.  -^9 

With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning, 

The  meUing  voice  through  mazes  running, 

Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 

The  hidden  soul  of  harmony, 

That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head 

From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 

Of  heap'd  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 

Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 

Of  Pluto,  to  have  quite  set  free 

His  half-regained  Eurydice. 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 
Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 

John  Miltox.^ 

1  John  Milton,  the  son  of  a  scrivener  of  the  same  name,  waf 
born  in  London,  in  Bread  Street,  December  9, 1608.  He  was  edu 
cated  by  Dr.  Young,  a  famous  Turitan  divine,  then  at  St.  Paul': 
School,  and  finally  at  Christ's  College,  where  he  first  wrote  verse: 
in  Latin  and  English.  After  a  brief  stay  at  his  father's,  whej 
were  written  some  of  his  more  famous  short  poems,  including  tht 
two  given  here,  he  travelled  in  Italy,  where  he  met  Galileo.  In 
1639  he  returned  to  England  and  soon  drifted  into  the  great 
struggle  between  king  and  Parliament  then  just  beginning  He 
soon  won  the  foremost  place  as  a  writer  on  political  and  religious 
questions,  and  in  1049  was  made  Latin  Secretary  of  the  Common- 
wealth, a  post  which  he  continued  to  hold  under  Cromwell.  He 
was  the  chief  defender,  with  the  pen,  of  the  Commonwealth  and 
the  Protector.  About  1653  he  became  totally  blind,  owing  to  in- 
cessant work,  made  necessary  by  his  continual  controversies.  At 
the  Restoration  his  life  was  spared,  but  he  was  obliged  to  live  in 
obscurity.  It  was  at  this  period  that  he  returned  to  poetry  and 
wrote  Paradise  Lost  and  Paradise  Reyained,  the  greatest  epic 
poems  in  the  English  language,  and  which  have  caused  him  to 
be  ranked  next  to  Shakespeare  among  English  poets.  Ho  was  a 
•.nan  of  profound  learning  and  a  wonderfid  linguist.  His  prose 
WTitings  were  voluminous  and  chiefly  controversial.  The  style 
seems  heavy  ind  involved,  if  judged  by  the  standard  of  tlie  pres- 
ent day,  but  it  is  nevertheless  magnificent,  ricli,  ami  powerful. 
It  is  as  the  great  literary  genius  of  Puritan  England,  and  as  the 
4 


t- 


50 


BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


IL  PENSEROSO. 


Hence,  vain  deluding  joys, 

The  brood  of  Folly  without  father  bred  I 
How  little  you  bestead 

Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toys  I 
Dwell  in  some  idle  brain, 

And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  possess 
As  thick  and  numberless 

As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sunbeams, 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams. 

The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train. 

But  hail,  thou  goddess  sage  and  holy. 

Hail,  divinest  Melancholy  1 

Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 

To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight, 

And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view 

O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  wisdom's  hue; 

Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 

Prince  Memnon's  sister  might  beseem, 

Or  that  starr'd  Ethiop  queen  that  strove 

To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above 

The  sea-nymphs,  and  their  powers  offended: 

Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended: 

Thee  bright-haire<l  Vesta,  long  of  yore, 

To  solitary  Saturn  bore; 

His  daughter  she;  in  Saturn's  reign 

Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain: 

Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 

He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 

Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove. 

While  vet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 


port  of  Puritanism,  that  Milton  is  most  interesting. 
November,  1674,  at  his  home  in  Bunhill  Fields. 


He  died  in 


i  IL  PENSEROSO.  51 

'  Come,  pensive  nun,  devout  and  pui-e, 

'  Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure. 

All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain 
Flowing  with  majestic  train, 
And  sable  stole  of  cypres  lawn 
Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn: 
Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 
With  even  step,  and  musing  gait. 
And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 
Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes: 
There,  held  in  holy  passion  still, 
Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 
With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast 
Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast: 
And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace  and  Quiet, 
Spare  Fast  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet, 
And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 
Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing: 
And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 
That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure: 
^  But  first,  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring 

1  Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing. 

Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne, 
The  cherub  Contemplation; 
_;  And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along, 

'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song 
i  In  her  sweetest,  saddest  plight, 

1  Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  night, 

\  UTiile  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke 

\  Gently  o'er  the  accustom'd  oak. 

,]  Sweet  bird,  that  shunn  st  the  noise  of  folly, 

(Most  musical,  most  melancholy! 
Thee,  chantress,  oft,  the  woods  among, 
?  I  woo,  to  hoar  thy  even-song; 

;  And  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 


-4 


l>2  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

On  the  dry,  smooth-shaven  green, 
To  behold  the  wandering  moon 
Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 
Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 
Through  the  heavens'  wide  pathless  way, 
And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bow'd, 
Stooping  througli  a  fleecy  cloud. 

Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 
I  hear  the  far-off  curfeu  sound 
Over  some  wide-water'd  shore, 
Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar: 
Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit. 
Some  still  removed  place  will  fit, 
Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 
Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom; 
Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 
Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth. 
Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm 
To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 

Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 
Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower. 
Where  I  may  oft  out-watch  the  Bear 
With  thriee-great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 
The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 
What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold 
The  immortal  mind  that  hath  forsook 
Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook: 
And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 
In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  under-ground. 
Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent 
With  planet,  or  with  element. 
Some  time  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 
In  sceptred  pall  come  sweeping  by. 
Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line, 
Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine; 


f 


IL  PENSEROSO.  53 


Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 
Ennobled  hath  the  buskin'd  stage. 

But,  O  sad  Virgin,  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Mus«;us  from  his  bower, 
Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 
Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string, 
Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek 
And  made  Hell  grant  what  Love  did  seekl 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half-told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold, 
Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 
And  who  had  Canace  to  wife  } 

That  own'd  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass;  i 

And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass  \ 

On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride:  ' 

And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung 

Of  turneys,  and  of  trophies  hung,  ■ 

Of  forests,  and  enchantments  drear, 
Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear. 

Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career, 
Till  civil-suited  Morn  appear, 
Not  trick'd  and  frounced  as  she  was  wont 
With  the  Attic  Boy  to  hunt. 
But  kerchieft  in  a  comely  cloud. 
While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud, 
Or  usher'd  with  a  shower  still. 
When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill. 
Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves 
With  minute  drops  from  off  the  eaves. 
And  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 
His  flaring  beams,  me.  Goddess,  bring 
To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves. 
And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan  loves, 
Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak. 


54 


BALLADS  AhD  LYRICS. 


A\  here  the  rude  axe,  with  heaved  stroke, 

Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallow'd  haunt; 

There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook 

Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look, 

Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye. 

While  the  bee  with  honey'd  thigh 

That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing, 

And  the  waters  murmuring, 

With  such  concert  as  they  keep, 

Entice  the  dewy-feather'd  Sleep; 

And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 

Wave  at  his  wings  in  aery  stream 

Of  lively  portraiture  display'd, 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid: 

And,  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 

Above,  about,  or  underneath. 

Sent  by  some  spirit  to  mortals  good, 

Or  the  unseen  genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail 
To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale, 
And  love  the  high-embowed  roof. 
With  antique  pillars  massy  proof, 
And  storied  widows  richly  dight, 
Casting  a  dim  religious  light: 
There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow 
To  the  full-voiced  quire  below 
In  service  high  and  anthems  clear, 
As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear, 
Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies 
And  bring  all  heaven  before  mine  ej'es. 

And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage. 
The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell. 
Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell 


"  ^'^i,'*  '■°"Sh  Neptune  rouse  the  wind 
To  wave  the  azure  main."     See  p.  53. 


1 


rO  ALL  YOU  LADIES  NOW  ON  LAND."  55 

Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  show,  \ 

And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew;  j 

Till  old  experience  do  attain 
To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 

These  pleasures,  Melancholy,  give. 
And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 

John  Milt  ox. 


"TO  ALL   YOU  LADIES  NOW  ON  LAND." 

SONG    WRITTEN    AT    SEA. 

To  all  you  ladies  now  on  land. 

We  men  at  sea  indite  ; 
But  first  would  have  you  understand 

How  hard  it  is  to  write  : 
The  Muses  now,  and  Neptune  too. 
We  must  implore  to  write  to  you. 

For  tho'  the  Muses  should  prove  kinil, 

And  fill  our  empty  brain  ; 
Yet  if  rough  Neptune  rouse  the  wind, 

To  wave  the  azure  main, 
Our  paper,  pen,  and  ink,  and  we 
Roll  up  and  down  our  ships  at  sea. 

Tiien,  if  we  write  not  by  each  post, 
Think  not  we  are  unkind  ; 

Nor  yet  conclude  our  ships  are  lost 
By  Dutchmen  or  by  wind  ; 

Our  tears  we  '11  send  a  speedier  way  : 
\  The  tide  shall  bring  them  twice  a  day. 


The  king,  with  wonder  and  surprise, 
Will  swear  the  seas  grow  bold  ; 


I 


56  BALLADS  ANfJ  LYBICS. 

Because  the  tides  will  higher  rise 

Tlian  e'er  they  did  of  old  : 
But  let  him  know  it  is  our  tears 
Bring  floods  of  gi'ief  to  Wliiteliall-stairs. 

Should  foggy  Opdam  chance  to  know 

Our  sad  and  dismal  story, 
The  Dutch  would  scorn  so  weak  a  foe, 

And  quit  their  fort  at  Goree ; 
For  what  resistance  can  they  find 
From  men  who  've  left  their  hearts  behind  ! 

Let  wind  and  weather  do  its  worst, 

Be  you  to  us  but  kind; 
Let  Dutchmen  vapor,  Spaniards  curse, 

No  sorrow  we  shall  find  : 
'Tis  then  no  matter  how  things  go. 
Or  who  's  our  friend,  or  who  's  our  foe. 

To  pass  our  tedious  hours  away. 

We  throw  a  merry  main  : 
Or  else  at  serious  ombi-e  play  ; 

But  why  should  we  in  vain 
Each  other's  ruin  thus  pursue  ? 
We  were  undone  when  we  left  you. 

But  now  our  fears  tempestuous  grow 

And  cast  our  hopes  away  ; 
Whilst  you,  regardless  of  our  wo. 

Sit  careless  at  a  play  : 
Perhaps  permit  some  happier  man 
To  kiss  your  hand,  or  flirt  your  fan. 

When  any  mournful  tune  you  hear, 
That  dies  in  every  note. 


SONG   FOR   SAINT  CECILIA'S  DAY.       57 

As  if  it  sigli'd  with  each  man's  care 

For  being  so  remote  : 
Think  then  how  often  love  we  've  made 
To  you,  when  all  those  tunes  were  play'd. 

In  justice,  you  cannot  refuse 

To  think  of  our  distress, 
When  we  for  hopes  of  honor  lose 

Our  certain  happiness  ; 
All  these  designs  are  but  to  prove 
Ourselves  more  worthy  of  your  love. 

And  now  we  've  told  you  all  our  loves, 

And  likewise  all  our  fears, 
In  hopes  this  declaration  moves 

Some  pity  for  our  tears  ; 
Let 's  hear  of  no  inconstancy, 
We  have  too  much  of  that  at  sea. 

Chakles  Sackvillk,  Earl  of  Dorset.^ 


SONG  FOR  SAINT   CECILIA'S   DAY. 

1687. 
From  Harmony,  from  heavenly  Harmony 

This  universal  frame  began  : 
When  nature  underneath  a  heap 
Of  jarring  atoms  lay 
1  Chahlks  Sackvilt.e,  Viscount  Biickhurst,  and  afterwards 
Earl  of  Dorset,  was  born  in  1G37.     In  his  youth  he  was  one  of 
the  wildest  and  most  debauched  of  all  the  courtiers  who  sur- 
rounded Charles  II.,  but  he  was  always  a  man  of  refined  tastes, 
*nd  a  patron  of  literature.     He  died  in  1706.     This  song,  the 
best  known  of  his  poems,  was  written  on  board  the  English  fleet 
ttt  the  time  of  the  first  war  between  Charles  II.  and  the  Dutch, 
and  on  the  eve  of  battle. 


58 


BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


And  could  not  licave  lier  head, 

The  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high, 

Arise,  yc  more  than  dead! 
Then  cold,  and  hot,  and  moist,  and  dry, 
In  order  to  their  stations  leap. 

And  Music's  power  obey. 
From  Harmony,  from  heavenly  Harmony 

This  universal  frame  began  : 

From  Harmony  to  Harmony 
Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it  ran, 
The  diapason  closing  full  in  man. 

What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell  ? 
When  Jubal  struck  the  chorded  shell 
His  listening  brethren  stood  around, 
And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell 
To  worship  that  celestial  sound. 

Less  than  a  God  they  thought  there  could  not  dwel. 
Witliin  the  hollow  of  that  shell 
That  spoke  so  sweetly  and  so  well. 

What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell? 

The  trumpet's  loud  clangor 

Ex(;ites  us  to  arms, 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger 

And  mortal  alarms, 
The  double  double  double  beat 
Of  the  thundering  drum 
Cries,  "  Hark!  the  foes  come; 
Charge,  charge,  't  is  too  late  to  retreat  I  " 


The  soft  complaining  flute 
In  dying  notes  discovers 
The  woes  of  hopeless  lovers, 
Whose  dirge  is  whispered  by  the  warbling  lute. 


SONG  FOR  SAINT   CECILIA'S  DAY.       59 

Sharp  violins  proclaim 
Their  jealous  pangs  and  desperation, 
Fury,  frantic  indignation, 
Depth  of  pains  and  height  of  passion 
For  the  fair  disdainful  dame. 

But  O !  what  art  can  teach , 
What  human  voice  can  reach, 

The  Siicred  organ's  praise? 
Notes  inspiring  holy  love, 
Notes  that  wing  their  heavenly  ways 

To  mend  the  choirs  above. 

Orpheus  could  lead  the  savage  race. 
And  trees  uprooted  left  their  place 

Sequacious  of  the  lyre: 
But  bright  Cecilia  raised  the  wonder  higher  : 
When  to  her  organ  vocal  breath  was  given 
An  Angel  heard,  and  straight  appear'd  — 

Mistaking  Earth  for  Heaven ! 

GRAND   CH0KU3. 

As  from  the  power  of  sacred  lays 

The  spheres  began  to  move. 
And  sung  the  great  Creator's  praise 

To  all  the  blest  above; 
So  when  the  last  and  dreadful  hour 
This  crumbling  pageant  shall  devour, 
The  trumpet  shall  be  heard  on  high. 
The  dead  shall  live,  the  living  die. 
And  music  shall  untune  the  sky. 

JoH.\  Dryden.1 

1  John  Dkyden,  the  most  famous  of  the  poets  of  the  Restora- 
tion, was  born  in  1631,  and  educated  at  Westminster  School  and 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge.     He  was  bred  a  Puritan,  but  went 


60  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

VERSION   OF   THE   NINETEENTH   PSALM. 


The  spacious  firmament  on  higli, 
With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 
And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 
Their  great  Original  proclaim: 
Th'  unwearied  sun  from  day  to  day 
Does  his  Creator's  power  display. 
And  publishes  to  every  land 
The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 


Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 
The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale, 
And  nightly  to  the  list'ning  earth 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth: 
Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 
And  all  the  planets,  in  their  turn. 
Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll. 
And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 


What  though,  in  solemn  silence,  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball? 
What  tho'  nor  real  voice  nor  sound 
Amid  their  radiant  orbs  be  found  ? 

over  to  Charles  II.  at  the  Restoration  and  became  a  playwright, 
essayist,  and  poet.  He  was  received  into  favor  at  court,  and 
was  made  poet-laureate  in  1668.  He  wrote  many  plays,  all  of 
which  are  now  deservedly  forgotten,  and  some  prose  essays.  His 
fame  rests  on  his  shorter  poems,  his  satires  of  groat  force  and 
brilliancy,  and  his  translation  of  Virgil.  He  died  IMay  1,  1700 
*nd  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 


DYIXG    CHRISTIAN   TO   HIS  SOUL.       61 

In  reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice, 

And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice, 

Forever  sini;ing,  as  they  shine, 

"  The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine." 

Joseph  Addison.* 


THE  DYING  CHRISTIAN  TO  HIS  SOUL. 

Vital  Spark  of  heavenly  flame, 
Quit,  O  quit  this  mortal  frame! 
Trembling,  hoping,  lingei'ing,  flvintf, 
O  the  pain,  the  bliss  of  dying! 
Cease,  fond  nature,  cease  thy  strife, 
And  let  me  languish  into  life! 

,  Hark!  they  whisper;  angels  say, 

Sister  spirit,  come  away. 
What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite, 
Steals  my  senses,  shuts  my  sight, 

1  JosKi'H  Annisox,  the  eldest  son  of  Lancelot  Addison,  Dean 
of  Lichfield,  was  born  at  Milston,  Wiltshire,  in  1672.  He  was 
sdiicated  at  the  Charter  House,  and  afterwards  at  Oxford,  \vhere 
he  had  a  hiyh  reputation  for  classical  scholarship.  He  at  once 
ventured  into  literature,  and  a  successful  poem  gained  him  a 
pension  from  Kinij  AVilliani.  lie  then  travelled  abroad,  and  on 
his  return  in  1704  attracted  the  notice  of  Queen  Anne's  govern- 
ment by  a  ])iiem  on  the  battle  of  Blenheim,  entitled  The  Cam- 
paign. The  favor  thus  gained  soon  bore  fruit.  He  was  made 
Commissioner  of  Appeals  and  under  Secretary  of  State,  and  ably 
defended  with  his  pen  the  "Whig  mini'^ti  v.  In  1710  he  married 
the  Countess  of  Warwick,  and  died  at  Holland  House,  London,  in 
the  forty-eighth  A-ear  of  his  age.  Addison  wrote  the  tragedy  of 
'^ato,  and  some  minor  poems,  but  his  literary  fame  rests  on  the 
essays  contributed  to  the  Spectator  and  Tatler.  Tiiese  essays, 
abounding  in  wit,  hunujr,  and  refined  criticism,  give  Addison 
bis  position  as  one  of  the  lirst  of  I'.nglish  prose  writers. 


j2  ballads  and  lyiucs. 

Drowns  my  spirits,  draws  my  breath  ? 
Tell  me,  my  Soul!  can  tins  be  death? 

The  world  recedes;  it  disappears  ; 

Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes  ;  my  ears 

With  sounds  seraphic  ring  : 

Lend,  lend  your  wings!     I  mount!     I  fly! 

O  grave!  where  is  thy  victory? 

0  death!  where  is  thy  sting? 

Alexander  Pope.^ 


S0LITUDE.2 

Happy  the  man  whose  wish  and  care 

A  few  paternal  acres  bound,  » 

Content  to  breathe  his  native  air 

In  his  own  ground. 

1  Alexander  Pope,  the  son  of  a  merchant,  was  born  in  Lon- 
don in  May,  1688.  He  was  deformed  in  body,  and  as  his  parents 
were  Roman  Catholics- he  was  educated  at  home  or  at  private 
schools.  He  was  a  boy  of  great  precocity  and  began  at  an  earlj' 
period  his  literary  career,  to  whicli  he  was  wholly  devoted.  All 
his  important  works,  including,  of  course,  the  translations  of 
Homer,  are  in  verse.  Some  are  poems  on  fashionable  society, 
others  philosophical  and  critical,  and  others  still  are  satire,  in 
which  Pope  excelled.  In  the  various  fields  of  original  poetry 
which  he  entered  he  has  hardly  ever  been  surpassed,  and  was, 
with  the  exception  of  Swift,  the  greatest  of  the  remarkable 
group  of  literary  men  known  as  the  school  of  Queen  Anne. 
Pope  passed  his  life  quietly  at  Twickenham,  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  London,  where  he  saw  the  best  society  of  the  time,  and 
carried  on  the  bitter  paper  warfare  into  which  his  vanity  and 
irritable  temper  constantly  led  him.  He  died  at  Twickenham 
in  1744. 

2  Written  when  the  author  was  about  tAvelve  years  old. 


TO  A   CHILD   OF  QUALITY.  G3 

Whose  herds  with  milk,  whose  fields  with  bread, 
Whose  flocks  supply  him  with  attire, 
Whose  trees  in  summer  yield  him  shade, 
In  winter  fire. 

Bless'd  who  can  unconcern'dly  find 
Hours,  days,  and  years  slide  soft  away. 
In  health  of  body,  peace  of  mind, 
Quiet  by  day; 

Sound  sleep  by  night;  study  and  ease 
Together  mixed ;  sweet  recreation  ; 
And  innocence,  which  most  does  please, 
With  meditation. 

Thus  let  me  live,  unseen,  unknown, 
Thus  unlamented  let  me  die; 
Steal  from  the  world,  and  not  a  stone 
Tell  where  I  lie. 

Alexander  Pope. 


TO    A    CHILD   OF   QUALITY.^ 

Lords,  knights,  and  squires,  the  numerous  band, 
That  wear  the  fair  Miss  Mary's  fetters. 

Were  summon'd  I)y  her  high  command. 
To  show  their  passions  by  their  letters. 

My  pen  among  the  rest  I  took. 

Lest  those  briiilit  eyes  that  cannot  read 

Should  dart  their  kindling  fires,  and  look 
The  power  they  have  to  be  obey'd. 

1  Five  years  old,  1704;. the  autlior  then  forty. 


64 


BALLADS  AND   LYRICS. 


Nor  quality,  nor  reputation, 

Forbid  me  yet  my  flame  to  tell, 
Dear  five  years  old  befriends  my  passion, 

And  I  may  write  till  she  can  spell. 

For,  while  she  makes  her  silk  worms  beds 

With  all  the  tender  things  I  swear, 
Whilst  all  the  house  my  passion  reads, 

In  papers  round  her  baby's  hair; 

She  may  receive  and  own  my  flame, 

For,  though  the  strictest  prudes  should  know  it, 
She  Ml  pass  for  a  most  virtuous  dame, 

And  I  for  an  unhapjjy  poet. 

Then  too,  alas  !  when  she  shall  tear 
The  lines  some  younger  rival  sends, 

She  '11  give  me  leave  to  write,  I  fear, 
And  we  shall  still  continue  friends. 


For  as  our  different  ages  move, 

'Tis  so  ordained  (would  Fate  but  mend  it!) 
That  I  shall  be  past  making  love, 

When  she  begins  to  comprehend  it. 

Matthew  Prior. ^ 

1  Matthew  Prior  was  born  in  Devonsliire  in  1664  and  adopted 
by  his  uncle,  the  landlord  of  a  London  tavern,  who  sent  him  to 
Westminster  School.  His  cleverness  and  knowledge  of  Latin  are 
said  to  have  attracted  the  notice  of  Lord  Dorset,  wlio  sent  him  to 
Cambridge,  and  who  afterwards  certainly  pushed  his  fortunes. 
He  entered  politics,  held  many  important  offices,  both  at  home 
and  in  diplomatic  service,  and  finally  rose  to  be  minister  at  Paris, 
M'hen  Lord  Bolingbroke  was  at  the  head  of  affairs,  during  the  last 
years  of  Queen  Anne.  On  the  death  of  the  queen  and  the  fall 
of  the  Tories  from  power  Prior  was  throfrn  into  prison  by  the 
Whigs,  but  was  discharged  without  a  trial     He  died  at  Wimpole 


ELEGY  IN  A    COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD.       65 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCH- 
YARD. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 
The  plonghman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  lue. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight. 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds: 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 
Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 
Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid. 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

riie  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn. 
The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 
The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

ill  1721.  During  all  his  active  life  he  never  lost  his  taste  for  let- 
ters, or  ceased  to  write  both  prose  and  verse.  Besides  his  me- 
moirs he  left  many  poems,  almost  all  of  a  light  and  easy  cliarac- 
ter,  but  displaying  wit,  fancy,  and  liuinor.  He  was  a  genial  mau 
and  agreeable  companion,  but  he  was  a  loose  liver,  extravagant, 
»nd  had  low  tastes  in  some  respects  which  he  freely  indulged. 
5 


66 


BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care: 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 


Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 
Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke; 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield  ! 
How  bow'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke  1 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 
Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 
Await  alike  tli'  inevitable  hour: 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  Proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault 
If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 
Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise 

Can  storied  nrn  or  animated  bust 
Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 
Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 
Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  Death? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 
Some  heart  once  pi^gnant  with  celestial  fire; 
Hands  that  the  rod  of  Empire  might  have  sway'd, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre: 


*  ELEGY  IN  A    COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD.   67 

I  But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 

'.  Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unroll; 

'  Chill  Penury  rejiress'd  their  noble  rage, 

\  And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

I  Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

i  The  dark  unfathom'd  eaves  of  ocean  bear: 

j  Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 

And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

i;  Some  village  Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 

I  The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 

Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 
Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

'  Th'  applause  of  list'ning  senates  to  command, 

I  The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

'\  To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

J  And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade;  nor  circumscribed  alone 
Their  growing  vu'tues,  but  their  crimes  confined; 
Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind  ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  bhishes  of  ingenuous  shame, 
,i  Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 

j  With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  fiame. 

!  Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife 

i  Their  sober  wishes  never  learn'd  to  stray; 

]  Along  the  cool,  sequester'd  vale  of  life 

]  They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 


fib 


BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


Yet  e'en  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  deck'd, 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  unletter'd  Muse, 
The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply : 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews 
That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resign'd, 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day. 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies. 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires  ; 
E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries. 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 


For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th'  unhonor'd  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate; 
If  chance,  by  lonely  Contemplation  led. 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate,  — 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say. 
Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 
Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away. 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn; 

There,  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 
Til  at  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high. 
His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 


ELEGY  IN  A    COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD.  69 

Hard  bv  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
MutterinL;;  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove ; 
Now  drooping,  woeful-wan,  like  one  forlorn. 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  cross'd  in  hopeless  love. 

One  morn  I  miss'd  him  on  the  custom'd  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree; 
Another  came  ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he; 

The  next, with  dn-ges  due  in  sad  array 
Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borne,— 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn, 

THE    EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth 
A  Youth  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  unknown; 
Fair  Science  frown'd  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  mark'd  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere ; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send: 

He  gave  to  Misery,  all  he  had,  a  tear. 

He  gain,'d  from  Heaven,  'twas  all  he  wish'd,  a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose. 
Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode 
(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose). 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

Thomas  Gray.^ 

^  Thomas  Gkay  was  born  in  London,  in  December,  1716. 
Through  the  care  of  his  mother  he  received  a  good  education, 
6rst  at  Eton  and  then  at  Cambridge.  After  leaving  the  univer- 
sity he  travelled  on  the  Continent  with  Horace  Walpole,  return- 


70 


BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


THE  BARD.i 


PINDARIC    ODE. 


"  Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  King! 

Confusion  on  thy  banners  wait ! 
Tho'  fanned  by  Conquest's  crimson  wing 

They  mock  the  air  with  idle  state. 
Helm,  nor  hauberk's  twisted  mail, 
Nor  e'en  thy  virtues,  tyrant,  shall  avail 
To  save  thy  secret  soul  from  nightly  fears. 
From  Cambria's  curse,  from  Cambria's  tears!  " 
Such  were  the  sounds  that  o'er  the  crested  pride 

Of  the  first  Edward  scattered  wild  dismay, 
As  down  the  steep  of  Snowdon's  shaggy  side 

He  wound  with  toilsome  march  his  long  array. 
Stout  Glo'ster  stood  aghast  in  speechless  trance; 
"  To  arms!  "  cried  Mortimer,  and  couched  his  quiver - 
ino;  lance. 


ing  in  1741.  The  following  j'ear  he  settled  at  Cambridge, 
where,  with  the  exception  of  occasional  visits  to  London,  he 
passed  the  remainder  of  his  life.  He  refused  the  position  of 
poet-laureate  in  1757,  and  in  1769  was  made  professor  of  mod- 
ern history.  He  died  of  an  attack  of  the  gout  in  1771.  He 
was  a  ripe  scholar  and  led  a  retired  life  of  learned  leisure,  which 
was  most  congenial  to  his  modest  disposition  and  studious 
tastes.  He  published  but  few  poems,  as  he  was  never  satisfied 
with  his  work,  and  passed  an  endless  time  in  polishing  every- 
thing he  wrote.  The  few  poems  he  did  publish  are  all  most 
perfect  in  execution,  and  the  Elegy  is  one  of  the  most  famous 
poems  in  the  language.  It  was  of  the  Elegy  that  Wolfe  re- 
marked, when  about  to  attack  the  French  on  the  Heights  of 
Abraham,  that  he  would  rather  have  written  that  poem  than 
take  Quebec. 

1  This  poem  refers  to  the  conquest  of  Wales  by  Edward  I., 
and  is  supposed  to  be  the  prophecy  of  one  of  the  bards  or  harp- 
ers who  figured  conspicuously  among  the  Welsh. 


*--4— 


THE  BARD.  71 

On  a  rock,  whose  haughty  brow 
Frowns  o'er  cold  Conway's  foaming  flood, 

Robed  in  the  sable  garb  of  woe, 
With  haggard  eyes  the  Poet  stood ; 
(Loose  his  beard  and  hoary  hair 
Streain'd,  like  a  meteor,  to  the  troubled  air) 
And  with  a  master's  hand,  and  prophet's  fire, 
Struck  the  deep  sorrows  of  his  lyre . 
"  Hark,  bow  each  giant  oak,  and  desert-cave, 

Sighs  to  the  torrent's  awful  voice  beneath! 
O'er  thee,  O  King!  their  hundred  arms  they  wave, 

Revenge  on  thee  in  hoarser  murmurs  breathe; 
Vocal  no  more,  since  Cambria's  fatal  day, 
To  high-born  Hoel's  harp,  or  soft  Llewellyn's  lay. 

"  Cold  is  Cadwallo's  tongue. 
That  liush'd  the  stormy  main: 
Brave  Urieu  sleeps  upon  his  craggy  bed: 
Mountains,  ye  mourn  in  vain 
Modred,  whose  magic  song 
Made  huge  Plinliuimon  bow  his  cloud-topt  head. 

On  dreary  Arvon's  shore  they  lie. 
Smeared  with  gore,  and  ghastly  pale: 
Far,  far  aloof  th'  affrighted  ravens  sail ; 
I  The  famished  eagle  screams,  and  passes  by. 

(  Dear  lost  companions  of  my  tuneful  art, 

i  Dear  as  the  light  that  visits  these  sad  eyes, 

I  Dear  as  the  ruddy  drops  that  warm  my  heart. 

Ye  died  amidst  your  dying  country's  cries  — 
j  No  more  I  weep.     They  do  not  sleep. 

On  yonder  cliffs,  a  griesly  band, 
I  see  them  sit,  they  linger  yet. 

Avengers  of  their  native  land: 
With  me  in  dreadful  harmony  they  join. 
And  weave  with  bloody  hands  the  tissue  of  thy  line. 


I  A*  nil.  1 


72 


BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


"  Weave  the  warp,  and  weave  the  woof, 

The  winding-sheet  of  Edward's  race. 
Give  ample  room,  and  verge  enough 

The  characters  of  hell  to  trace. 
Mark  the  year,  and  mark  the  night. 
When  Severn  shall  reecho  with  affright 
The  shrieks  of  death  thro'  Berkley's  roof  that  ring. 
Shrieks  of  an  agonizing  king !  ^ 

She-wolf  of  France,  with  unrelenting  fangs, 
That  tear'st  the  bowels  of  thy  mangled  mate, 

From  thee  be  born,  who  o'er  thy  country  hangs 
The  scourge  of  heaven.     What  terrors  round  him  wait 
Amazement  in  his  van,  with  flight  combined, 
And  Sorrow's  faded  form,  and  Solitude  behind. 

"  Mighty  victor,  mighty  lord!  ^ 

Low  on  his  funeral  couch  he  lies ! 
No  pitying  heart,  no  eye,  afford 

A  tear  to  grace  his  obsequies. 
Is  the  sable  warrior  fled  ?  ^ 
Thy  son  is  gone.      He  rests  among  the  dead. 
The  swarm  that  in  thy  noontide  beam  were  born? 
Gone  to  salute  the  rising  morn. 
Fair  laughs  the  morn,  and  soft  the  zephyr  blows, 

While  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azui'e  realm 
In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  vessel  goes. 

Youth  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  the  helm, 
Regardless  of  the  sweeping  whirlwind's  sway, 
That,  hush'd  in  grim  I'epose,  expects  his  ev'ning  j^rey. 


1  This  stanza  refers  to  Edward  II.,  son  of  the  conqueror  of 
Wales,  who  was  murdered  in  Berkley  Castle  at  the  instigation 
of  his  Queen  Isabella,  referred  to  below  as  "she-wolf  of  France." 

■^  Edward  III.,  conqueror  of  France,  said  to  have  been  neg- 
lected and  deserted  in  his  last  moments  and  after  his  death. 

8  The  Black  Prince,  son  of  Edward  III.,  who  died  at  Bordeaux. 


THE  BARD.  73 

"  Fill  high  the  sparkling  bowl, 
The  rich  repast  prepare; 

Reft  of  a  crown,  he  yet  may  share  the  feast:* 
Close  by  the  regal  chair 

Fell  Thirst  and  Famine  scowl 

A  baleful  smile  upon  their  baffled  guest. 
Heard  ye  the  din  of  battle  bray, 

Lance  to  lance,  and  horse  to  horse? 

Long  years  of  havoc  urge  their  destined  course, 
And  thro'  the  kindred  squadrons  mow  their  way.* 

Ye  towers  of  Julius,  London's  lasting  shame, 
With  many  a  foul  and  midnight  murder  fed, 

Revere  his  Consort's  faith,  his  father's  fame. 
And  spare  the  meek  usurper's  holy  head.^ 
Above,  below,  the  rose  of  snow. 

Twined  with  her  blushing  foe,  we  spread  : 
The  bristled  boar  in  infant  gore 

Wallows  beneath  the  thorny  shade.* 
Now,  brothers,  bending  o'er  the  acciu'sed  loom. 
Stamp  wu  our  vengeance  deep,  and  ratify  his  doom. 

"  Edward,  lo!  to  sudden  fate 

(Weave  we  the  woof.     The  thread  is  spun.) 
Half  of  thy  heart  we  consecrate. 

(The  web  is  wove.     The  work  is  done.) 
Stay,  O  stay !  nor  thiis  forlorn 
Leave  me  unblessed,  unpitied,  here  to  mourn: 

1  Richard  II.,  son  of  the  Black  Prince,  who  was  forced  to  ab 
dicate  by  the  Duke  of  Lancaster,  afterwards  Henry  IV. 

-  'JMii.s  passage  refers  to  the  long  and  bloody  Wars  of  the  Roses 
between  the  rival  Jiouses  of  York  and  Lancaster. 

'^  Henry  YI.,  murdered  in  the  Tower  and  siiiceedvd  by  I'.d- 
ward  IV.,  of  the  house  of  York. 

■*  The  Duke  of  Gloucester,  afterwards  Richard  III.,  v,\u>  is 
supposed  to  have  murdered,  in  the  Tower  of  London,  his  nepliew.s 
Edward  V.  and  the  vouug  Duke  of  Y'ork,  sons  of  Edward  IV. 


74c  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

In  yon  bright  track,  that  fires  the  western  skies, 

They  melt,  they  vanish  from  my  eyes. 

But  O!  what  solemn  scenes  on  Snowdon's  height 

Descending  slow  their  glittering  skirts  unroll? 
Visions  of  glory,  spare  my  aching  sight! 

Ye  unborn  ages,  crowd  not  on  my  soul! 
No  more  our  long-lost  Arthur  we  bewail. 
All  hail,  ye  genuine  kings,  Britannia's  issue,  hail! 

"  Girt  with  many  a  baron  bold 
Sublime  their  starry  fronts  they  rear; 

And  gorgeous  dames,  and  statesmen  old 
In  bearded  majesty,  appear. 
In  the  midst  a  form  divine ! 
Her  eye  proclaims  her  of  the  Briton-Line:  ^ 
Her  lion-port,  her  awe-commanding  face. 
Attemper' d  sweet  to  virgin-grace. 
What  strings  symphonious  tremble  in  the  air. 

What  strains  of  vocal  transport  round  her  play. 
Hear  from  the  grave,  great  Taliessin,  hear; 

They  breathe  a  soul  to  animate  thy  clay. 
Bright  Kapture  calls,  and,  soaring  as  she  sings. 
Waves  in  the  eye  of  heaven  her  many-color'd  wings. 

"  The  verse  adorn  again 

Fierce  war,  and  faithful  love, 
And  truth  severe  by  fairy  fiction  drest. 

In  buskin'd  measures  move 
Pale  grief,  and  pleasing  pain. 
With  horror,  tyrant  of  the  throbbing  breast. 
A  voice,  as  of  the  cherub-choir. 

Gales  from  blooming  Eden  bear; 

And  distant  warblings  lessen  on  my  ear, 
That  lost  in  long  futurity  expire. 

1  Queen  Elizabeth. 


ODE    WRITTEN  IN  MDCCXLVL  75 

Fond  impious  man,  tliink'st  thou  yon  sanguine  cloud, 

Raised  by  thy  breath,  has  quench'd  the  orb  of  day? 
To-morrow  he  repairs  the  golden  flood, 

And  warms  the  nations  with  redoubled  ray. 
Enough  for  me,  with  joy  I  see 

The  different  doom  our  fates  assign. 
Be  thine  despair  and  sceptred  care. 

To  triumph,  and  to  die,  are  mine." 
He  spoke,  and  headlong  from  the  mountain's  height 
Deep  in  the  roaring  tide  he  plunged  to  endless  night. 

Thomas  Gray. 


ODE  WRITTEN  IN  MDCCXLVL^ 

How  sleep  the  Brave  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  Country's  wishes  blest! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallow'd  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung. 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung : 
There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay. 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there  1 

AViLLiAM  Collins.' 

This  was  the   period  of  the  war  between  Great  Britain  and 
Spa-Ti. 

2  "William  Collins  was  born  in  Chichester  in  1720,  and  edu- 
cated at  Winchester  School  and  Oxford.  AVhile  still  in  college 
he  wrote  some  of  his  best  poems,  the  Persian  Ecloffues.  He  did 
aot  succeed,  however,  as  a  literary  man,  and  the  effects  of  his  fail- 


76  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


ON    A    FAVORITE    CAT,    DROWNED   IN    A 
TUB  OF  GOLD  FISHES. 

'T'  WAS  on  a  lofty  vase's  side 
Where  China's  gayest  art  had  dyed 

The  azure  flowers  that  blow; 
Demurest  of  the  tabby  kind, 
The  pensive  Selima,  reclined, 

Gazed  on  the  lake  below. 

Her  conscious  tail  her  joy  declared; 
The  fair  round  face,  the  snowy  beard, 

The  velvet  of  her  paws, 
Her  coat,  that  with  the  tortoise  vies, 
Her  ears  of  jet,  and  emerald  eyes. 

She  saw;  and  purr'd  applause. 

Still  had  she  gazed;  but  'midst  the  tide 
Two  angel  forms  were  seen  to  glide. 

The  Genii  of  the  stream  : 
Their  scaly  armor's  Tyrian  hue 
Through  richest  purple  to  the  view   ' 

Betray'd  a  golden  gleam. 

The  hapless  nymph  with  wonder  saw: 
A  whisker  first,  and  then  a  claw, 

With  many  an  ardent  wish, 
She  stretch'd,  in  vain,  to  reach  the  prize. 
What  female  heart  can  gold  despise? 

What  Cat 's  averse  to  fish  ? 

lire  and  liis  irregular  life  brouglit  on  a  settled  melancliol}'.  He 
travelled  on  the  Continent,  but  returned  only  to  become  the  in- 
mate of  a  lunatic  asylum,  and  died  soon  after  liis  discharge,  in 
1756.  His  life  was  sad  and  an  apparent  failure,  but  his  lyrics 
hold  a  high  place  in  English  literature. 


ELEGY. 

Presumptuous  maid  !  with  looks  intent 
Again  she  stretch 'd,  again  she  bent, 

Nor  knew  the  gulf  between. 
(INIalignant  Fate  sat  by  and  smiled.) 
The  slippery  verge  her  feet  beguiled, 

She  tumbled  headlong  in. 

Eight  times  emerging  from  the  flood 
She  niew'd  to  every  watery  God 

Some  speedy  aid  to  send  : 
No  Dolphin  came,  no  Nereid  stirr'd, 
Nor  cruel  Tom,  nor  Susan  heard. 

A  fav'rite  has  no  friend  ! 

From  hence,  ye  beauties,  undeceived, 
Know  one  false  step  is  ne'er  retrieved. 

And  be  with  caution  bold. 
Not  all  that  tempts  your  wandering  eyes 
And  heedless  hearts  is  lawful  prize. 

Nor  all,  that  glisters,  gold  ! 

Thomas  Grat. 


ELEGY 

ox    THE    DEATH    OF    A   MAD    DOG. 

Good  j)eople  all,  of  every  sort, 

Give  car  unto  my  song  ; 
And  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short, — 

It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man. 
Of  whom  tlu'  world  might  say, 


1 


78  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran,  — 
Whene'er  he  went  to  pray. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 
To  comfort  friends  and  foes  ; 

The  naked  every  day  he  clad,  — 
When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found. 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 
Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound. 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 

This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends, 

But  then  a  pique  began  ; 
The  dog,  to  gain  some  private  ends, 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 

Around  from  all  the  neighboring  streets 
The  wondering  neighbors  ran, 

And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits, 
To  bite  so  good  a  man. 


The  wound  it  seem'd  both  sore  and  sad 

To  ever}^  Christian  eye  ; 
And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad, 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 
That  show'd  the  rogues  they  lied : 

The  man  recover'd  of  the  bite, 
The  dog  it  was  that  died. 

Oliver  Goldsmith.^ 

I  Oliveii  Goldsmith,  the  son  of  a  clerr^yman,  was  born  in 
Longford  County,  Ireland,  in  1728.     After  such  an  education  as 


AN  ELEGY.  79 


AN  ELEGY 

DN    THAT    GLORY    OF    HER    SEX,    MRS.    MARY    BLAIZE 

Good  people  all,  with  one  accord, 

Lament  for  Madame  Blaize, 
Who  never  wanted  a  good  word  — 

From  those  who  spoke  her  praise. 

The  needy  seldom  pass'd  her  door, 

And  always  found  her  kind; 
She  freely  lent  to  all  the  poor,  — 

Who  left  a  pledge  behind. 

She  strove  the  neighborhood  to  please, 
With  manners  wond'rous  winning; 

And  never  follow'd  wicked  ways,  — 
Unless  when  she  was  sinning. 

At  cluirch,  in  silks  and  satins  new, 

With  hoop  of  monstrous  size; 
She  never  slumber'd  in  her  pew,  — 

But  when  she  shut  her  eyes. 

could  be  obtained  at  the  \nllage  school,  he  entered  Dublin  Col- 
lege, and  graduated,  after  some  mishaps,  in  17-49.  His  life  wa^ 
one  long  and  bitter  struggle  to  maintain  himself  by  his  pen.  He 
was  alwaj's  in  debt  and  lived  loosely.  He  was  a  warm-hearted 
and  humorous  Irishman,  and  a  brilliant  writer.  Amid  a  mass  of 
hack  work  which  he  produced  to  gain  his  daily  bread,  were  some 
of  the  best  works  of  their  kind  in  the  language,  notably,  the  Vicar 
of  Wakefield,  a  novel  possessing  the  most  enduring  charm  which 
lumor  and  pathos  combined  can  give.  He  wrote  also  manv  es- 
says and  some  jilays  aiul  poems,  and  was  the  friend  of  Samuel 
Johnson,  Sir  .Joshua  Reynolds,  Edmund  Burke,  and  others  of  the 
in.'st  brilliant  men  of  iiis  time.  He  died  in  London,  in  1774 
vhen  at  the  height  of  his  fame. 


1 


80  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Her  love  was  sought,  I  do  aver, 

By  twenty  beaux  and  more; 
The  king  himself  has  follow 'd  her,  — 

When  she  has  walk'd  before. 

But  now  her  wealth  and  finery  fled. 

Her  hangers-on  cut  short  all ; 
The  doctors  found,  when  she  was  dead,  — 

Her  last  disorder  mortal. 

Let  us  lament,  in  sorrow  sore. 
For  Kent  Street  well  may  say. 

That  had  she  liv'd  a  twelve-month  more, — 
She  had  not  died  to-day. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL   GEORGE.i 

Toll  for  the  Brave! 
The  brave  that  are  no  more ! 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave 
Fast  by  their  native  shore! 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave. 
Whose  courage  well  was  tried, 
Had  made  the  vessel  heel 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land-breeze  shook  the  shrouds 
And  she  was  overset ; 

1  The  Royal  George,  a  first  rate  man-of-war,  was  overset  while 
I3  iiig  at  anchor  at  Spithead,  by  the  guns  rolling  to  one  side  when 
*.he  vessel  was  careened  to  be  repaired.  Rear  Admiral  Kempen- 
*elt  was  drowned  with  all  on  board,  about  six  hundred  persons. 
The  disaster  occurred  August  29,  1782. 


LOSS   OF   THE  ROYAL    GEORGE.         81 

Down  went  the  Royal  George, 
With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave ! 
Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone; 
His  last  sea-fight  is  fought, 
His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle; 
No  tempest  gave  the  shock; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak, 
She  ran  upon  no  rock. 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath, 
His  fingers  held  the  pen, 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down 
With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  up 
Once  dreaded  by  our  foes! 
And  mingle  with  our  cup 
The  tear  that  England  owes. 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound, 

And  she  may  float  again 

Full  charged  with  England's  thunder, 

And  plough  the  distant  main: 

But  Kempenfelt  is  gone. 

His  victories  are  o'er; 

And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 

Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more. 

William  Cow p k r . ^ 

*  William  Cowper,  son  of  the  Rev.  John  Cowper,  of  the 
'amilv  of  Earl  Cowper,  was  born  at  Berk  ha  mp  stead,  November 
6 


82 


BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


IS  THERE,  FOR  HONEST  POVERTY. 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty. 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by. 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Our  toils  obscure,  and  a'  that  ; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp, 

The  man  's  tlie  gowd  for  a'  that! 

What  tho'  on  hamely  fare  we  dine. 

Wear  hoddin  gray,  and  a'  that; 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 

A  man  's  a  man,  for  a'  that! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that; 
The  honest  man,  though  e'er  sae  poor, 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that ! 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a'  that ; 


26,  1731.  He  was  a  delicate  child,  and  after  leaving  Westminstei 
School,  where  he  had  a  good  reputation  for  scholarship,  entered 
a  lawyer's  office  and  took  chambers  subsequently,  intending  to 
practise  at  the  bar.  His  health,  however,  gave  way,  and  his 
mind  was  seriously  affected.  The  disease  took  the  form  of  re- 
ligious mania  and  melancholy,  and  recurred,  at  intervals,  with 
f,reateror  less  acuteness  through  his  life.  Incapacitated  for  ac- 
tive pursuits  Cowper  retired  to  the  country,  and  passed  his  life 
in  the  little  village  of  Olney,  in  the  house  of  Mrs.  Unwin,  who 
befriended  him  and  to  whom  some  of  his  most  beautiful  lyrics 
were  addressed.  He  devoted  himself  to  literature  in  his  retire- 
ment, wliere  he  passed  a  peaceful  life.    He  died  in  1800. 


-  ^mtAu  tmt^M^ejmau 


IS   THERE,  FOR  HONEST  POVERTY.       83 

Though  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He  's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that: 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

His  riband,  star,  and  a'  that. 
The  man  of  independent  mind. 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that! 

A  king  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that; 
But  an  honest  man  's  aboon  his  might, 

Guid  faith  he  mauna  fa'  that! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that. 
The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth. 

Are  higher  ranks  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may  — 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that  — 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth, 

May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

It 's  comin'  yet  for  a'  that. 
That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er. 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that ! 

Robert  Burns. ^ 

1  Robert  Burns  was  the  son  of  a  small  farmer  in  Alloway, 
Scotland.  He  was  born  in  1759,  and  received  a  meagre  educa- 
tion at  the  village  school.  But  the  love  of  knowledge  there 
awakened  led  him  to  pursue  his  studies  and  educate  himself  so 
far  as  possible  by  erery  means  in  his  power.  He  began  to 
write  verses  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  and  was  then  brought  into 
notice  and  received  at  Edinburgh,  where  he  tirst  fell  into  the 
liabits  of  excessive  drinking  which  proved  his  curse.  He  was 
appointed  an  exciseman  or  ganger,  which  tended  to  increase  his 
/'ntemperate  habits,  and  although  he  afterwards  returned  to 
farming,  his  excesses  had  uudennined  his  constitution  and  he 


84 


BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


THE  SOLITUDE  OF  ALEXANDER  SELKIRK.* 

I  AM  monarch  of  all  I  survey; 
My  right  there  is  none  to  dispute; 
From  the  centre  all  round  to  the  sea 
I  am  lord  of  the  fowl  and  the  brute. 

0  Solitude!  where  are  the  charms 
That  sages  have  seen  in  thy  face? 
Better  dwell  in  the  midst  of  alarms 
Than  reign  in  this  horrible  place. 

1  am  out  of  humanity's  reach, 

I  must  finish  my  journey  alone, 
Never  hear  the  sweet  music  of  speech; 
I  start  at  the  sound  of  my  own. 
The  beasts  that  roam  over  the  plain 
My  form  with  indifference  see; 
They  are  so  unacquainted  with  man, 
Their  tameness  is  shockino-  to  me. 


Society,  Friendship,  and  Love, 
Divinely  bestow'd  upon  man, 
O  had  I  the  wings  of  a  dove 
How  soon  would  I  taste  you  again! 

died  of  a  fever  in  1796,  at  the  a^e  of  thirty-seven.  His  lyrics 
are  among  the  best  in  the  language,  in  sentiment  and  expres- 
sion, and  some  of  his  longer  poems  abound  in  rollicking  hu- 
mor as  well  as  deep  and  simple  feeling.  He  wrote  sometimes 
in  English,  but  his  best  work  was  done  in  his  native  Scotch 
dialect. 

1  Selkirk  was  a  Scotch  sailor  who  was  cast  away  upon  the  un- 
inhabited island  of  Juan  Fernandez,  off  the  west  coast  of  South 
America,  in  1704.  Here  he  remained  in  utter  solitude  for  four 
years,  when  he  was  taken  off  by  an  English  ship.  His  advent- 
ures suggested  to  Defoe  his  famous  story  of  Robinson  Crusoe. 


BBsasEsaassa 


SOLITUDE   OF  ALEXANDER  SELKIRK,     bo 


My  sorrows  I  then  might  assuage 
In  the  ways  of  religion  and  truth, 
Might  learn  from  the  wisdom  of  age, 
And  be  cheer'd  by  the  sallies  of  youth. 

Ye  winds  tliat  have  made  me  your  sport. 

Convey  to  this  desolate  shore 

Some  cordial,  endearing  report 

Of  a  land  I  shall  visit  no  more : 

My  friends,  do  they  now  and  then  send 

A  wish  or  a  thought  after  me  ? 

O  tell  me  I  yet  have  a  friend, 

Though  a  friend  I  am  never  to  see. 

How  fleet  is  a  glance  of  the  mind ! 
Compared  with  the  speed  of  its  flight. 
The  tempest  itself  lags  behind, 
And  the  swift-winged  arrows  of  light. 
When  I  think  of  my  own  native  land 
In  a  moment  I  seem  to  be  there; 
But  alas!  recollection  at  hand 
Soon  hurries  me  back  to  despair. 

But  the  seafowl  is  gone  to  ber  nest, 
The  beast  is  laid  down  in  his. lair; 
Even  here  is  a  season  of  rest, 
And  I  to  my  cabin  repair. 
There  's  mercy  in  every  place. 
And  mercy,  encouraging  thought! 
Gives  even  affliction  a  grace 
And  reconciles  man  to  his  lot. 

AViLLIAM    COWPER. 


S6 


BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


MY  HEART  'S  IN    THE  HIGHLANDS. 


My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here; 
My  heart  's  in  the  Highlands  a  chasing  the  deer; 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe  — 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 
Farewell  to  the  Highlands,  farewell  to  the  North, 
The  birth phice  of  valor,  the  country  of  worth; 
Wherever  I  wander,  wherever  I  rove, 
The  hills  of  the  Highlands  forever  I  love. 


1 


Farewell  to  the  mountains  high  cover'd  with  snow; 
Farewell  to  the  straths  and  green  vallies  below: 
Farewell  to  the  forests  and  wild-hanging  woods; 
Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud-pouring  floods. 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here, 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands  a  chasing  the  deer: 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe  — 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  wherever  I  go. 

Robert  Burns. 


THE  DIVERTING  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN, 


BHOwiNG   HOW   hp:   wext   farther   than    he  in- 
tended,   AND    CAME    SAFE    HOME    AGAIN. 

John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen 

Of  credit  and  renown, 
A  train-band  Captain  eke  was  he 

Of  famous  London  town. 


1 
1 

THE  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN.        87 

John  Gilpin's  spouse  said  to  her  dear, 

\ 

Though  wedded  we  have  been 

These  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we 

i 

No  holiday  have  seen. 

To-morrow  is  our  wedding-day, 

J 

And  we  will  then  repair 

i 

Unto  the  Bell  at  Edmonton, 

All  in  a  chaise  and  pair. 

My  sister  and  my  sister's  child, 

Myself  and  children  three. 

Will  fill  the  chaise,  so  you  must  ride 

On  horseback  after  we. 

He  soon  replied  —  I  do  admire 

I 
I 

t 

Of  womankind  but  one. 

And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  dear, 

Therefore  it  shall  be  done. 

5 

I  am  a  linen-draper  bold, 
As  all  the  world  doth  know. 

And  my  good  friend  the  Callender 
Will  lend  his  horse  to  go. 

Quoth  Mrs.  Gilpin —  That 's  well  said; 

Ami  for  that  wine  is  dear, 
Wii  will  be  furnish'd  with  our  own. 

< 

* 

Which  is  both  bright  and  clear. 

John  Gilpin  kiss'd  his  loving  wife, 

O'erjoyed  was  he  to  find 
That  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent, 
'                                      She  had  a  frugal  mind. 

( 

88  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

The  morning  came,  the  chaise  was  brought, 

But  yet  was  not  allovv'd 
To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 

Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 

So  three  doors  off  the  chaise  was  stay'd, 

Where  they  did  all  get  in. 
Six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog 

To  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 

Smack  Avent  the  whip,  round  went  the  wheel, 

Were  never  folk  so  glad, 
The  stones  did  rattle  underneath 

As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 

John  Gilpin  at  his  horse's  side 

Seized  fast  the  flowing  mane. 
And  up  he  got  in  haste  to  ride, 

But  soon  came  down  again. 

For  saddle-tree  scarce  reach'd  had  he, 

His  journey  to  begin, 
When  turning  round  his  head  be  saw 

Three  customers  come  in. 

So  down  he  came,  for  loss  of  time, 

Although  it  grieved  him  sore. 
Yet  loss  of  pence,  full  well  he  knew, 

Would  trouble  him  much  more. 


'Twas  long  before  the  customers 

Were  suited  to  their  mind, 
When  Betty  screaming  came  down  stairs, 

"  The  wine  is  left  behind." 


THE  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN.        89 

Good  lack  !  quoth  he,  yet  bring  it  me, 

My  leathern  belt  likewise, 
In  which  I  bear  my  trusty  sword 

When  I  do  exercise. 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin,  careful  soul, 

Had  two  stone  bottles  found, 
To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  loved, 

And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 

Each  bottle  had  a  curling  ear, 

Through  which  the  belt  he  drew, 
And  hung  a  bottle  on  each  side 

To  make  his  balance  true. 

Then  over  all,  that  he  might  be 

Equipped  from  top  to  toe, 
His  long  red  cloak  well  brush'd  and  neat 

He  manfully  did  throw. 

Now  see  him  mounted  once  again 

Upon  his  nimble  steed, 
Full  slowly  pacing  o'er  the  stones 

With  caution  and  good  heed. 

But  finding  soon  a  smoother  road 

Beneath  his  well-shod  feet, 
The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot, 

Which  galled  him  in  his  seat. 

So,  Fair  and  softly,  John  he  cried, 

But  John  he  cried  in  vain, 
That  trot  became  a  gallop  soon 

In  spite  of  curb  and  rein. 


90  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

So  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must 

Who  cannot  sit  upright, 
He  grasp'd  the  mane  with  both  his  hands 

And  eke  with  all  his  might. 

His  horse,  who  never  in  that  sort 

Had  handled  been  before, 
What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got 

Did  wonder  more  and  more. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  neck  or  nought, 

Away  went  hat  and  wig. 
He  little  dreamt  when  he  set  out 

Of  running  such  a  rig. 

The  wind  did  blow,  the  cloak  did  fly, 
Like  streamer  long  and  gay, 

Till  loop  and  button  failing  both, 
At  last  it  flew  away. 

Then  might  all  people  well  discern 

The  bottles  he  had  slung, 
A  bottle  swinging  at  each  side 

As  hath  been  said  or  sung. 

The  dogs  did  bark,  the  children  screaui'd, 

Up  flew  the  windows  all, 
And  every  soul  cried  out,  Well  done! 

As  loud  as  he  could  bawl. 

Away  went  Gilpin  —  who  but  he ; 

His  fame  soon  spread  around  — 
He  carries  weight,  he  rides  a  race, 

'Tis  for  a  thousand  pound. 


TEE  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN.        91 

■:  And  still  as  fast  as  he  drew  near, 
I  'T  was  wonderful  to  view 

i  How  in  a  trice  the  turnpike-men 
{  Their  gates  wide  open  threw. 


!|  And  now  as  he  went  bowing  down 

i  His  reeking  head  full  low, 

I  The  bottles  twain  behind  his  back 

i  Were  shatter'd  at  a  blow. 

Down  ran  the  wine  into,  the  road, 
Most  piteous  to  be  seen, 

Which  made  his  horse's  flanks  to  smoke 
As  they  bad  basted  been. 

\  But  still  he  seem'd  to  carry  weight, 

[  With  leathern  girdle  braced, 

For  all  might  see  the  bottle-necks 
Still  dangling  at  his  waist. 

Thus  all  through  merry  Islington 
These  gambols  he  did  play, 

And  till  he  came  into  the  Wash 
Of  Edmonton  so  gay. 

And  there  he  threw  the  Wash  about 
On  both  sides  of  the  way, 

Just  like  unto  a  trundling  mop, 
Or  a  wild-goose  at  play. 

At  Edmonton  his  loving  wife 
From  the  balcony  spied 

Her  tender  husband,  wondering  much 
To  see  how  he  did  ride. 


92  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Stop,  stop,  John  Gilpin  !  —  Here's  the  house 

They  all  at  once  did  cry, 
The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tired : 

Said  Gilpin  —  so  am  I. 

But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a  whit 

Inclined  to  tarry  there, 
For  why  ?  his  owner  had  a  house 

Full  ten  miles  off,  at  Ware. 

So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew 

Shot  by  an  archer  strong. 
So  did  he  fly  —  which  brings  me  to 

The  middle  of  my  song. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  out  of  breath, 

And  sore  against  his  Avill, 
Till  at  his  friend's  the  Callender's 

His  horse  at  last  stood  still. 

The  Callender,  amazed  to  see 

His  neighbor  in  such  trim. 
Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate, 

And  thus  accosted  him  — 

What  news?  what  news?  your  tidings  tell, 

Tell  me  you  must  and  shall  — 
Say  why  bare-headed  you  are  come, 

Or  why  you  come  at  all  ? 

Now  Gilpin  had  a  pleasant  wit 

And  loved  a  timely  joke, 
And  thus  unto  the  Callender 

In  merry  guise  he  spoke  — 


THE  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN.         93 

I  came  because  your  horse  would  come ; 

And  if  I  well  forebode, 
My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here, 

They  are  upon  the  road. 

The  Callender,  right  glad  to  find 

His  friend  in  merry  pin, 
Return'd  him  not  a  single  word, 

But  to  the  house  went  in. 

Whence  straight  he  came  with  hat  and  wig, 

A  wig  that  flow'd  behind, 
A  hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear, 

Each  comely  in  its  kind. 

He  held  them  up  and  in  his  turn 

Thus  show'd  his  ready  wit, 
—  jMv  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours, 

They  therefore  needs  must  fit. 

But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away 

That  hangs  upon  your  face; 
And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 

Be  in  a  hungry  case. 

Said  John  —  It  is  my  wedding-day, 

And  all  the  world  would  stare, 
If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton 

And  I  should  dine  at  Ware. 

So  turning  to  his  horse,  he  said, 

I  am  in  haste  to  dine, 
'T  was  for  your  pleasure  you  came  here, 

You  shall  go  back  for  mine. 


m»  m\  "•  l^iwrniMi 


94  BALLADS  AND   LYRICS. 

Ah,  luckless  speech,  and  bootless  boast! 

For  which  he  paid  full  dear; 
For  while  he  spake  a  braying  ass 

Did  sing  most  loud  and  clear. 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort  as  he 

Had  heard  a  lion  roar, 
And  gallop'd  off  with  all  his  might 

As  he  had  done  before. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 
Went  Gilpin's  hat  and  wig; 

He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first, 
For  why?  they  were  too  big. 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 
Her  husband  posting  down 

Into  the  country  far  away, 
She  pull'd  out  half  a  crown; 

And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said 
That  drove  them  to  the  Bell, 

This  shall  be  yours  when  you  bring  back 
My  husband  safe  and  well. 

The  youth  did  ride,  and  soon  did  meet 

John  coming  back  amain. 
Whom  in  a  trice  he  tried  to  stop 

By  catching  at  his  rein. 

But  not  performing  what  he  meant. 
And  gladly  would  have  done, 

The  frighted  steed  he  frighted  more, 
And  made  him  faster  run. 


«  3 
■J.2 


THE  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN.       95 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  post-boy  at  his  heels, 
The  post-boy's  horse  right  glad  to  miss 

The  lumbering  of  the  wheels. 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly. 
With  post-boy  scampering  in  the  rear, 

They  raised  the  hue  and  cry. 

Stop  thief,  stop  thief  —  a  highwayman  I 

Not  one  of  them  Avas  mute. 
And  all  and  each  that  pass'd  that  way 

Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 

And  now  the  turnpike  gates  again 

Flew  open  in  short  space, 
The  toll  men  thinking  as  before 

That  Gilpin  rode  a  race. 

And  so  he  did,  and  won  it  too, 

For  he  got  first  to  town. 
Nor  stopp'd  till  where  he  had  got  up 

He  did  again  get  down. 

Now  let  us  sing,  Long  live  the  kino-, 

And  Gilpin,  long  live  he. 
And  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad, 

May  I  be  there  to  see ! 

William  Cowper. 


9B  BALLADS  AND   LYRICS. 


MY   BONNIE  MARY. 

Go  fetch  to  nie  a  pint  o'  wine, 

And  fill  it  in  a  silver  tassie; 
That  I  may  drink,  before  I  go, 

A  service  to  my  bonnie  lassie; 
The  boat  rocks  at  the  pier  o'  Leith; 

Fu'  loud  the  wind  bhnvs  frae  the  ferry; 
The  ship  rides  by  the  Berwick-law, 

And  I  maun  leave  my  bonnie  Mary. 

The  trumpets  sound,  the  banners  tly, 

The  glittering  spears  are  ranked  ready ; 
The  shouts  o'  war  are  heard  afar. 

The  battle  closes  thick  and  bloody; 
But  it 's  not  the  war  o'  sea  or  shore 

Wad  make  me  langer  wish  to  tarry; 
Nor  shouts  o'  war  that  's  heard  afar  — 

It 's  leaving  thee,  my  bonnie  Mary. 

Robert  Burns. 


THE   SLEEPING   BEAUTY. 

Sleep  on,  and  dream  of  Heaven  awhile 
Tho'  shut  so  close  thy  laughing  eyes, 
Thy  rosy  lips  still  wear  a  smile. 
And  move,  and  breathe  delicious  sighs! 

Ah,  now  soft  blushes  tinge  her  cheeks 
And  mantle  o'er  her  neck  of  snow: 
Ah,  now  she  murmurs,  now  she  speaks 
What  most  I  wish  —  and  fear  to  know! 


t-9rv*  NBHEoa 


JOH^  ANDERSON.  97 

She  starts,  she  trembles,  and  she  weeps  1 
Her  fair  hands  folded  on  her  breast: 
—  And  now,  how  like  a  saint  she  sleeps! 
A  seraph  in  the  realms  of  rest! 

Sleep  on  secure!     Above  control 
Thy  thoughts  belong  to  Heaven  and  thee: 
And  may  the  secret  of  thy  soul 
Remain  within  its  sanctuary ! 

Samuel  Rogkhs.* 


JOHN  ANDERSON. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

When  -we  were  first  acquent; 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent; 
But  now  your  brow  is  bald,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 
We  clamb  the  hill  thegither ; 

1  Samuel  Rogers  was  the  son  of  a  London  banker  and  born  in 
1763.  He  succeeded  to  his  father's  business  in  1793,  but  after  a 
few  3'ears  retired  with  a  sufficient  fortune  to  live  a  life  of  leisure, 
and  gratify  his  literary  tastes  and  the  love  of  poetry,  which  he 
had  sliowu  from  his  earliest  years.  f-Je  published  a  long  descrip- 
tive poem,  Italy,  and  a  volume  of  short  poems.  He  was  besl 
known,  however,  during  his  long  life,  as  a  wit  and  man  of  soci- 
ety, and  was  for  two  generations  one  of  the  most  conspicuous 
figures  in  London  life.  He  died  in  1855. 
7 


98  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

And  mony  a  canty  day,  John, 
We  've  had  wi'  ane  anither: 

Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 
But  hand  in  hand  we  '11  go, 

And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 
John  Anderson  my  jo. 

Robert  Burns. 


BRUCE  TO  HIS  MEN  AT  BANNOCKBURN.» 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Brace  has  aften  led; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed. 
Or  to  victorie! 

Now  's  the  day,  and  now  's  the  hour; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour: 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  pow'r  — 
Chains  and  t^laverie! 


1 


Wha  will  be  a  traitor-knave  ? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave? 

Let  him  turn  and  flee ! 

Wha  for  Scotland's  King  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand  or  freeman  fa'  ? 
Let  him  follow  me  ! 


1  The  battle  of  Bannockburn  was  fought  on  June  24,  1314,  be- 
tween the  Scotch,  under  Robert  Bruce,  and  the  English,  under 
Edward  11.     It  resulted  in  the  total  defeat  of  the  English. 


BRUCE  AND    THE  ABBOT.  9.9 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains! 
By  our  sons  in  servile  chains! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 
But  they  shall  be  free! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe! 
Liberty  's  in  every  blow !  — 
Let  us  do  or  die! 


Robert  BuRXi>.  \ 


BRUCE   AND   THE   ABBOT.i 

The  Abbot  on  the  threshold  stood, 
And  in  his  hand  the  holy  rood. 
Then,  cloaking  hate  with  fiery  zeal, 
Proud  Lorn  first  answered  the  appeal: 

"  Thou  coniest,  O  holy  man, 
True  sons  of  blessed  Church  to  greet, 
But  little  deeming  here  to  meet 

A  wretch,  beneath  the  ban 
Of  Pope  and  Church,  for  murder  done 
E'en  on  the  sacred  altar  stone! 
Well  may'st  thou  wonder  we  should  know 
Such  miscreant  here,  nor  lay  him  low, 
Or  dream  of  greeting,  peace,  or  truce, 
With  excommunicated  Bruce! 
Yet  well  I  grant  to  end  debate. 
Thy  sainted  voice  decide  his  fate." 

1  This  is  an  extract  from  the  Lord  of  the  Isles,  one  of  Scott's 
longer  poems. 


100  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

The  Abbot  seemed  with  eye  severe 
The  hardy  chieftain's  speech  to  hear; 
Then  on  King  Robert  turned  the  monk,  — 
But  twice  his  courage  came  and  sunk, 
Confronted  with  tlie  hero's  look  ; 
Twice  fell  his  eye,  his  accents  shook. 
Like  man  by  prodigy  amazed, 
Upon  the  King  the  Abbot  gazed  ; 
Then  o'er  his  pallid  features  glance 
Convulsions  of  ecstatic  trance  ; 
His  breathing  came  more  thick  and  fast, 
And  from  his  pale  blue  eyes  were  cast 
Strange  rays  of  wild  and  wandering  light; 
Uprise  his  locks  of  silver  white, 
Flushed  is  his  brow;  through  every  vein 
In  azure  tide  the  currents  strain. 
And  undistinguished  accents  broke 
The  awful  silence  ere  he  spoke. 


De  Bruce  I  I  rose  with  purpose  dread 

To  speak  my  curse  upon  thy  head. 

And  give  thee  as  an  outcast  o'er 

To  him  who  burns  to  shed  thy  gore ; 

But,  like  the  Midianite  of  old. 

Who  stood  on  Zophim,  Heaven-controlled. 

I  feel  within  mine  aged  breast 

A  power  that  will  not  be  repressed ; 

It  prompts  my  voice,  it  swells  my  veins, 

It  burns,  it  maddens,  it  constrains! 

De  Bruce,  thy  sacrilegious  blo»v 

Hath  at  God's  altar  slain  thy  foe: 

O'ermastered  yet  by  high  behest, 

I  bless  thee,  and  thou  shalt  be  blessed!  " 

lie  spoke,  and  o'er  the  astonished  throng 

Was  silence,  awful,  deep,  and  long. 


BRUCE  AND   THE  ABBOT.  101 

Again  that  liglit  lias  fired  liis  eye, 
Again  his  I'orni  swells  bold  and  high, 
The  broken  voice  of  age  is  gone, 
'T  is  vigorous  manhood's  lofty  tone: 
Thrice  vanquished  on  the  battle  plain,  — 
Thy  followers  slaughtered,  fled,  or  ta'en,  — 
A  hunted  wanderer  on  the  wild, 
On  foreign  shores  a  man  exiled, 
Disowned,  deserted,  and  distressed,  — 
I  bless  thee,  and  thou  shalt  be  blessed! 
Blessed  in  the  hall  and  in  the  field, 
Under  the  mantle  as  the  shield. 
Avenger  of  thy  country's  shame. 
Restorer  of  her  injured  fame. 
Blessed  in  thy  sceptre  and  thy  sword, — 
De  Bruce,  fair  Scotland's  rightful  lord, 
Blessed  in  thy  deeds  and  in  thy  fame, 
^\Tiat  lengthened  honors  wait  thy  namel 
In  distant  ages,  sire  to  son 
Shall  tell  thy  tale  of  freedom  won. 
And  teach  his  infants,  in  the  use 
Of  earliest  speech,  to  falter  Bruce- 
Go,  then,  triumphant !  sweep  along 
Thy  course,  the  theme  of  many  a  song! 
The  Power,  whose  dictates  swell  my  breast, 
Hath  blessed  thee,  and  thou  shalt  be  blessed! " 
Sir  Walter  Scott.^ 


1  Sir  Walter  Scott,  the  greatest,  perhaps,  of  all  modern 
Lnglish  writers,  was  the  son  of  Walter  Scott,  a  writer  to  the 
Sifjnet,  and  was  horn  in  Edinburgh  in  1771.  Although  iiis 
health  in  childhood  was  delicate,  he  displayed  extraordinary 
talents  at  a  very  early  age.  He  was  educated  at  the  high 
sclionl  and  University  of  Edinburgli,  was  admit  ted  to  the  bar, 
•\\\(\.  iit'ld  several  profitable  and  important  legal  appointments 
He    was  married    in    1797,    and  soon  after  published   his  first 


102  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


CLAUD   HALCRO'S   SONG, 

Farewell  to  ISTorthniaven, 

Gray  Hillswioke,  farewelll 
To  the  calms  of  thy  liaven. 

The  storms  on  thy  fell  ; 
To  each  breeze  that  can  vary 

The  mood  of  thy  main, 
And  to  thee,  bonny  Mary! 

We  meet  not  again. 

Farewell  the  wild  ferry. 

Which  Hacon  could  brave. 

When  the  peaks  of  the  Skerry 
AVere  white  in  the  wave. 


lolume  of  poems  and  translations.  These  were  followed  by 
his  longer  poems,  such  as  Marmion  and  the  Lady  of  the  Lake, 
which  gave  him  a  wide  reputation.  In  1814  he  published,  anon- 
ymonslj-,  Wavei-k-y,  the  first  of  the  great  series  of  novels  bear- 
ing that  name,  and  which  gave  him  world-wide  renown  and 
a  foremost  place  in  English  literature,  and  which  have  never 
been  surpassed.  He  wrote  much  and  well  on  other  subjects 
also,  and  was  a  man  of  great  learning  in  our  older  literature. 
He  had  an  almost  superhuman  power  of  production,  and  made 
vast  sums  by  his  novels.  But  the  money  thus  gained  was 
wasted,  and  a  partnership  with  his  publishers  ended  in  finan- 
cia.  ruin.  He  finally  extricated  himself  from  his  most  press- 
ing difficulties,  but  never  regained  his  wealth.  He  died  in 
1832.  No  biographical  paragraph  can  do  justice  to  his  vast 
and  versatile  genius,  or  even  give  anj'  idea  of  it.  In  poetry 
and  romance  alike  he  achieved  a  success  which  it  is  given  to 
few  men  to  attain  in  either.  The  lyrics  in  this  collection  are 
taken  from  the  longer  poems,  and  from  the  novels  through 
which  they  were  scattered  with  a  lavish  hand.  Tliey  are 
among  the  most  beautiful  in  the  whole  range  of  English  litera- 
ture. 


y  -V"  r 

ML 

i-h  -^"^J^iiJ  i!f,T^' Jv'"^ -'^li- ' 


"  Farewell  to  North-maveii 

Gray  Hillswicke,  farewell!  "     See  p.  102. 


SONG   OF  HAROLD  HARFAGER.        103 

There  's  a  maid  may  look  over 

These  wild  waves  in  vain, 
For  the  skiff  of  her  lover  — 

He  comes  not  again! 

The  vows  thou  hast  broke, 

On  the  wild  currents  fling  them  ; 
On  the  quicksand  and  rock 

Let  the  mermaidens  sing  them ; 
New  sweetness  they  '11  give  her 

Bewildering  strain; 
But  there  's  one  who  will  never 

Believe  them  again. 

O  were  there  an  island, 

Though  ever  so  wild, 
"Where  woman  could  smile,  and 

No  man  be  beguiled  — 
Too  tempting  a  snare 

To  poor  mortals  were  given; 
And  the  hope  would  fix  there. 

That  should  anchor  in  heaven. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

The  Pivnte. 


THE  SONG  OF  HAROLD  HARFAGER.i 

The  sun  is  rising  dimly  red. 

The  wind  is  wailing  low  and  drciad;  ; 

From  his  cliff  the  eagle  sallies,  i 

Leaves  the  wolf  his  darksome  valleys;  | 

Harold  Hiirfagcr  or  Harold  Fair  Hair,  tlio  most  famous  ol  ' 

early  kings  of  Norway,  885-894.  i 


104  BALLADS  AND  LYIUCS. 

In  the  mist  the  ravens  hover, 
Peep  the  wild  (lo2;s  from  the  cover, 
Screaming,  croaking,  baying,  yelUng, 
Each  in  his  wild  accents  telling, 
"  Soon  we  feast  on  dead  and  dying, 
Fair-haired  Harold's  flag  is  flying." 

Many  a  crest  on  air  is  streaming, 
Many  a  helmet  darkly  gleaming, 
Many  an  arm  the  axe  uprears, 
Doomed  to  hew  the  wood  of  spears. 
All  along  the  crowded  ranks 
Horses  neigh  and  armor  clanks; 
Chiefs  are  shouting,  clarions  ringing, 
Louder  still  the  bards  are  singing: 
"  Gather,  footmen!  gather,  horsemen! 
To  the  field,  ye  valiant  Norsemen! 

"  Halt  ye  not  for  food  or  slumber. 
View  not  vantage,  count  not  number; 
Jolly  reapers,  forward  still. 
Grow  the  crop  on  vale  or  hill. 
Thick  or  scattered,  stiff  or  lithe, 
It  shall  down  before  the  scythe. 
Forward  with  your  sickles  bright, 
Reap  the  harvest  of  the  fight ; 
Onward,  footmen!  onward,  horsemen! 
To  the  charge, ye  gallant  Norsemen! 

Fatal  choosers  of  the  Slaughter, 
O'er  you  hovers  Odin's  daughter; 
Hear  the  choice  she  spreads  before  ye,  ■ 
Victory,  and  wealth,  and  glory; 
Or  old  Valhalla's  roaring  hail. 
Her  ever-circling  mead  and  ale, 


Buy  TING  SONG.  105 

Where  for  eternity  unite 
The  joys  of  wassail  and  of  fight. 
Headlong  forward,  foot  and  horsemen, 
Charge  and  fight,  and  die  like  Norsemen!" 
Sir  Walter  Scott. 

The  Pirate. 


HUNTING   SONG. 


Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay. 
On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day, 
All  the  jolly  chase  is  here, 
With  hawk,  and  horse,  and  hunting  spear 
Hounds  are  in  their  couples  yelling, 
Hawks  are  whistling,  horns  are  knelling 
Merrily,  merrily,  mingle  they, 
"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay. 
The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray, 
Springlets  in  the  dawn  are  steaming, 
Diamonds  on  the  brake  are  gleaming; 
And  foresters  have  busy  been. 
To  track  the  buck  in  thi(;ket  green; 
Now  we  come  to  chant  our  lay, 
"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
To  the  greenwood  haste  away; 
We  can  show  you  where  he  lies, 
Fleet  of  foot,  and  tall  of  size; 
We  can  show  the  marks  he  made. 
When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  h-aysd 


106  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

You  shall  see  him  brought  to  bay, 
"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Louder,  louder  chant  the  lay. 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay  ! 

Tell  them  youth,  and  mirth,  and  glee 

Run  a  course  as  well  as  we; 

Time,  stern  huntsman!  who  can  balk. 

Staunch  as  hound,  and  fleet  as  hawk; 

Think  of  this,  and  rise  with  day, 

Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


SONG:    COUNTY    GUY. 

Ah!  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh. 

The  sun  has  left  the  lea. 
The  orange-flower  perfumes  the  bower. 

The  breeze  is  on  the  sea. 
The  lark,  his  lay  who  trilled  all  day. 

Sits  hushed  his  partner  nigh  ; 
Breeze,  bird,  and  flower  confess  the  hour, 

But  where  is  County  Guy? 

The  village  maid  steals  through  the  shade, 

Her  shepherd's  suit  to  hear; 
To  beauty  shy,  by  lattice  high. 

Sings  high-born  Cavalier. 
The  star  of  Love,  all  stars  above, 

Now  reigns  o'er  earth  and  sky; 
And  high  and  low  the  influence  know  — 

But  where  is  County  Guy? 

Sin  Wat.tkr  Scott. 

Qiientin   Durwnrd 


MACPHERSON'S  FAREWELL.  107 


MACPHERSON'S  FAREWELL. 

Farewell,  ye  dunojeons  dark  and  strong, 

The  wretch's  destinie! 
Macpherson's  time  "vvill  not  be  long 
On  yonder  gallows-tree. 

Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantonly, 

Sae  dauntingly  gaed  he; 
He  play'd  a  spring,  and  danc'd  it  round, 
Below  the  gallows-tree. 

O,  what  is  death  but  parting  breath? 

On  many  a  bloody  plain 
I  've  dar'd  his  face,  and  in  this  place 

I  scorn  him  yet  again  ! 

Untie  these  bands  from  off  my  hands, 

And  bring  to  me  my  swoi'd; 
And  there  's  no  a  man  in  all  Scotland, 

But  I  '11  brave  him  at  a  word. 

I  've  liv'd  a  life  of  sturt  and  strife  ; 

I  die  by  treacherie: 
It  burns  my  heart  I  must  depart, 

And  not  avengfed  be. 

Now  farewell  light, thou  sunshine  bright, 

And  all  beneath  the  sky! 
May  coward  shame  distain  his  name, 
The  wretch  that  dares  not  die! 
Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantonly,  etc. 

Robert  Burns. 


108  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


THE  POPLAR  FIELD. 

The  poplars  are  feU'd,  farewell  to  the  shade 
And  the  whispering  sound  of  the  cool  colonnade; 
The  winds  play  no  longer  and  sing  in  the  leaves, 
Nor  Ouse  on  his  bosom  their  image  receives. 

Twelve  years  have  elapsed  since  I  last  took  a  view 
Of  my  favorite  field,  and  the  bank  where  they  grew: 
And  now  in  the  grass  behold  they  are  laid, 
And  the  tree  is  my  seat  that  once  lent  me  a  shade. 

The  blackbird  has  fled  to  another  retreat 
Where  the  hazels  afford  him  a  screen  from  the  heat ; 
And  the  scene  where  his  melody  charm'd  me  before 
Resounds  with  his  sweet-flowing  ditty  no  more. 

My  fugitive  years  are  all  hasting  away, 

And  I  must  erelong  lie  as  lowly  as  they. 

With  a  turf  on  my  breast  and  a  stone  at  my  head 

Ere  another  such  grove  shall  arise  in  its  stead. 

'T  is  a  sicht  to  engage  me,  if  anything  can, 
To  muse  on  the  perishing  pleasures  of  man; 
Short-lived  as  we  are,  our  enjoyments,  I  see. 
Have  a  still  shorter  date,  and  die  sooner  than  we. 

William  Cowpkr. 


A  WISH. 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill ; 
A  bee -hive's  hum  shall  soothe  my  ear; 
A  willowy  brook,  that  turns  a  mill, 
With  many  a  fall  shall  linger  near. 


THE  BANKS   0' DOON.  100 

The  swallow,  oft,  beneath  my  thatch 
Shall  twitter  from  her  clay- built  nest; 
Oft  shall  the  pilgrm  lift  the  latch, 
And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 

Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 
Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew; 
And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village  church  among  the  trees, 
Where  first  our  marriage  vows  were  given. 
With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  Heaven. 

Samufx  Rogkrs. 


THE  BANKS  0'  DOON. 


Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresh  and  fair; 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I  sae  weary,  fu'  o'  care! 
Thou  'It  break  my  heart,  thou  warbling  bird, 

That  wantons  thro'  the  flowering  thorn  : 
Thou  minds  me  o'  departed  Joys, 

Departed  —  never  to  return  ! 


Aft  hae  T  rovM  liy  bonnie  Doon, 

To  see  the  rose  and  woodbine  twine; 

Ami  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  liive. 

And  foiidlv  sae  did  I  o'  mine.        ^ 


■■^^E53?5snErs 


110  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

AVi'  lightsome  heart  I  pn'd  a  rose, 
Fu'  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree; 

And  my  fause  hiver  stole  my  rose, 
But,  ah !  he  left  the  thorn  \vi'  me. 

RoBKRT  Burns. 


1 
I 


EVENING. 

The  sun  upon  the  lake  is  low, 

The  wild  birds  hush  their  song, 
Tlie  hills  have  evening's  deepest  glow, 

Yet  Leonard  tarries  long. 
Now  all  whom  varied  toil  and  care 

From  home  and  love  divide, 
In  the  calm  sunset  may  repair 

Each  to  the  loved  one's  side. 

The  noble  dame  on  turret  high, 

Who  waits  her  gallant  knight, 
Looks  to  the  western  beam  to  spy 

The  flash  of  armor  bright. 
The  village  maid,  with  hand  on  brow 

The  level  ray  to  shade. 
Upon  the  footpath  watches  now 

For  Colin's  darkening  plaid. 

Now  to  their  mates  the  wild  swans  row, 

By  day  they  swam  apart, 
And  to  the  thicket  wanders  slow 

The  hind  beside  the  hart. 
The  woodlark  at  his  partner's  side 

Twitters  his  closing  song  — 
All  meet  whom  day  and  care  divide, 

But  Leonard  tarries  long  ! 

Sib  Walter  Scott. 


"  The  sun  upon  the  lake  is  low."     See  p.  no. 


SONG. 


Ill 


SONG. 

There  is  mist  on  the  mountain  and  night  on  the  vale, 
But  more  dark  is  the  sleep  of  the  sons  of  the  Gael. 
A  stranger  commanded  — it  sunk  on  the  land, 
It  has  frozen  eacli  heart,  and  benumbed  every  hand! 

The  dirk  and  the  target  lie  sordid  with  dust, 
The  bloodless  claymore  is  but  reddened  with  rust: 
On  the  hill  or  the  glen  if  a  gun  should  appear, 
It  is  only  to  war  with  the  heath-cock  or  deer. 

The  deeds  of  our  sires  if  our  bards  should  rehearse, 
Let  a  blush  or  a  blow  be  the  meed  of  their  verse! 
Be  mute  every  string,  and  be  hushed  every  tone. 
That  shall  bid  us  remember  the  fame  that  is  flown. 


But  the  dark  hours  of  night  and  of  slumber  are  past, 
The  morn  on  our  mountains  is  dawning  at  last; 
Glenaladale's  peaks  are  illumed  with  the  rays. 
And  the  streams  of  Glenfinnan  leap  bright  in  the  blaze. 

O  high-minded  Moray!  —  the  exiled  —  tlie  dear! 
In  the  blush  of  the  dawning  the  Standard  uprear! 
Wide,  wide  to  the  winds  of  the  north  let  it  fly. 
Like  the  sun's  latest  flash  when  the  tempest  is  nighi 

Ye  sons  of  the  strong,  when  that  dawning  shall  break, 
Need  the  harp  of  the  aged  remind  you  to  wake? 
That  dawn  never  beamed  on  your  forefathers'  eye. 
But  it  roused  each  high  chieftain  to  vanquish  or  die. 

O  sprung  from  the  Kings  who  in  Islay  kept  state, 
Frou<l  chiefs  of  Clan-Ranald,  Glengary,  and  SleatI 


112  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Combine  like  three  sti'eams  from  one  mountain  of  snow, 
And  resistless  in  union  rush  down  on  the  foe! 

True  son  of  Sir  Evan,  undaunted  Lochiel, 
Place  thy  taroe  on  thy  shoulder  and  burnish  thy  steel ! 
Rough  Keppoeh,  give  breath  to  thy  bugle's  bold  swell, 
Till  far  Coryarrick  resound  to  the  knell! 

Stern  son  of  Lord  Kenneth,  high  chief  of  Kintail, 
I^et  the  stag  in  thy  standard  bound  wild  in  the  gale! 
I\Iay  the  race  of  Clan-Gillian,  the  fearless  and  free, 
Remember  Glenlivet,  Harlaw,  and  Dundee! 

Let  the  clan  of  gray  Fingon,  whose  offspring  has  given 
Such  heroes  to  earth,  and  such  martyrs  to  heaven, 
Unite  with  the  race  of  renowned  Rori  More, 
To  launch  the  long  galley,  and  stretch  to  the  oar! 

How  Mac-Shimei  will  joy  when  their  chief  shall  display 
The  yew-crested  bonnet  o'er  tresses  of  gray! 
How  the  race  of  wronged  Alpine  and  murdered  Glencoe 
Shall  shout  for  revenge  when  they  pour  on  the  foe! 

Ye  sons  of  brown  Dermid,  who  slew  the  wild  boar, 
Resume  the  pure  faith  of  the  great  Callum-More! 
Mac-Neil  of  the  Islands,  and  Moy  of  the  Lake, 
For  honor,  for  freedom,  for  vengeance  awake! 

Awake  on  your  hills,  on  your  islands  awake! 
Brave  sons  of  the  mountain,  the  frith,  and  the  lakft! 
'Tis  the  bugle  — but  not  for  the  chase  is  the  call; 
'Tis  the  pibroch's  shrill  summons  — but  not  to  the  hall 

Tis  the  summons  of  heroes  for  conquest  or  death, 
When  the  banners  are  blazing  on  mountain  and  heath; 


GLENARA. 


113 


They  call  to  the  diik,  the  claymore,  and  the  targe, 
To  the  march  and  the  muster,  the  line  and  the  chiirge. 

Be  the  brand  of  each  chieftain  like  Fin's  in  his  ire! 
May  the  blood  through  his  veins  flow  like  currents  of 

firr! 
Burst  the  base  foreign  yoke  as  your  sires  did  of  }'ore! 
Or  die,  like  your  sires,  and  endure  it  no  more! 

Sir  Waltkr  Scott. 

Waverley. 


GLENARA. 

0  HEARD  ye  yon  pibroch  sound  sad  in  the  gale. 
Where  a  band  cometh  slowly  with  weeping  and  wail  ? 
'T  is  the  chief  of  Glenara  laments  for  his  dear; 
And  her  sii-e,  and  the  people,  are  call'd  to  her  bier. 

Glenara  came  first  with  the  mourners  and  shroud  ; 
Her  kinsmen  they  foUow'd,  but  mourned  not  aloud: 
Their  plaids  all  their  bosoms  were  folded  around: 
They  march' d    all    in    silence,  —  they  looked    on    thti 
ground. 


In  silence  they  reach'd  over  mountain  and  moor, 
To  a  heath,  where  the  oak-tree  grew  lonely  and  hoar: 
'•  Now  here  let  us  place  the  gray  stone  of  her  cairn; 
Why  speak  yc  no  word?  "  said  Glenara  the  stern. 

"  And  tell  me,  1  charge  you!  ye  clan  of  my  spouse, 
Why  fold  ye  your  mantles  ?  why  cloud  ye  your  brows  ?  " 
So  spake  the  rude  chieftain:  no  answer  is  made, 
But  each  mantle  unfolding  a  dagger  display'd. 
8 


114  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

•'  I  dreamt  of  my  lady,  I  dreamt  of  her  shroud," 
Cried  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen,  all  wrathful  and  loud; 
"  And  einptv  that  shroud  and  that  coffin  did  seem: 
Glenara!  Glenara!  now  read  me  my  dream!  " 

0!  pale  grew  the  cheek  of  that  chieftain,  I  ween, 
When  the  shroud  was  unclosed,  and  no  lady  was  seen; 
When  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen  spoke  louder  in  scorn, 
'T  was   the  youih   who   had  loved   the   fair  Ellen  of 
Lorn : 

'•  I  dreamt  of  my  lady,  I  dreamt  of  her  grief, 
I  dreamt  that  her  lord  was  a  barbarous  chief: 
On  a  rock  of  the  ocean  fair  Ellen  did  seem; 
Glenara!  Glenara!  now  read  me  my  dream!" 

In  dust,  low  the  traitor  has  knelt  to  the  ground. 
And  the  desert  reveal'd  where  his  lady  was  found ; 
From  a  rock  of  the  ocean  that  beauty  is  borne,  — 
Now  joy  to  the  house  of  fair  Ellen  of  Lorn ! 

Thomas  Campbell. * 

1  Thomas  Campbell,  born  in  Glasgow  in  1777,  graduated  at 
the  university  of  his  native  town,  and  made  an  early  reputation 
as  a  poet  bv  the  publication  of  his  Pleasures  of  Rope.  After 
a  journey  on  the  Continent,  where  he  witnessed  the  battle  of 
Hohenlinden,  he  returned  to  London,  where  he  passed  the  rest  of 
his  life.  His  prose  writings,  which  were  extensive  and  profita- 
ble, and  gained  for  him  a  pension  from  the  government,  are 
HOW  forgotten,  but  his  l\Tic  poetry  holds  a  high  place.  He  died 
in  1844. 


LOCHINVAR.  115 


LOCHINVAR. 

O,  YOUNG  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  West, 
Through  all  the  wide  border  his  steed  was  the  best; 
And  save  his  good  broadsword  he  weaj)ons  had  none, 
He  I'ode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar. 

He  staid  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone, 
He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there  was  none; 
But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate. 
The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late: 
For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war. 
Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  J^etherby  hall, 

Among  bride's-men,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers  and 

all: 
Then   spoke   the   bride's   father,   his    hand    on    his 

sword 
(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word) , 
"  O  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war, 
Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar?  " 

"I  long  woo'd  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  denied; 
Love  swells  like  the  Sol  way,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide; 
And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine, 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine. 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland,  more  lovely  by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be   bride  to  the  young   Lochin- 
var." 

The  hride  kissed  the  goblet;  the  kni;:ht  took  it  up. 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup. 


116  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to 

sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could  bar,  — 
"  Kow  tread  we  a  measure  !  "  said  young  Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  his  face, 
That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace; 
While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume, 
And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and 

plume; 
And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  "  'T  were  better 

by  far 
To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young  Loch- 
invar." 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 
When  they  reached  the  hall-door,  and  the  charger 

stood  near; 
So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung. 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung  1 
"She  is  won!    we    are   gone,   over   bank,  bush,  and 

scaur ; 
They  '11  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,"  quoth  young 

Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Gi'aemes  of  the  Netherby 

clan; 
Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and 

they  ran: 
There  was  racing  and  chasing,  on  Cannobie  Lee, 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see. 
So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar: 
Sir  Walteu  Scott. 


LORD   ULLIN'S  DAUGHTER.  117 

LORD   ULLIN'S   DAUGHTER.  | 

A  CHIEFTAIN,  to  the  Hidilaiids  bound,  [• 

Cries,  "  Boatman,  do  not  tarry  ! 
And.  I  '11  give  thee  a  silver  pound, 

To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry."  { 

"  Now  who  be  ye,  would  cross  Lochgyle, 

This  dark  and  stormy  water?  "  ; 

"  O  I  'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  isle,  t 

And  this  Lord  UUin's  daughter.  i 

"  And  fast  befoi-e  her  father's  men 

Three  days  we  've  fled  together,  . 

For  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen,  * 

My  blood  would  stain  the  heather.  "' 

"  His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride;  , 

Should  they  our  steps  discover,  \ 

Then  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride  «; 

When  they  have  slain  her  lover?  "  I 

Out  spoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight, 

"  I  '11  go,  my  chief  —  I  'm  ready  : 
It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright. 

But  for  your  winsome  lady  : 

*'  And  by  my  word!  the  bonny  bird  ' 

In  danger  shall  not  tarry  ;  i 

So,  though  the  waves  are  raging  white,  v 

I  'U  row  you  o'er  the  ferry."  J 


By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace. 
The  water-wraith  1  was  shrieking; 
1  The  evil  spirit  of  the  waters. 


118  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

And  in  the  scowl  of  Leaven  each  face 
Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 

But  still  as  wilder  blew  the  wind. 
And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 

Adown  the  glen  rode  armed  men, 
Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 

"  O  haste  thee,  haste!  "  the  lady  cries, 
"  Though  tempests  round  us  gather; 
I  '11  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies, 
But  not  an  angry  father." 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 

A  stormy  sea  before  her,  — 
When,  O!  too  strong  for  human  hand, 

The  tempest  gather'd  o'er  her. 

And  still  they  row'd  amidst  the  roar 

Of  waters  fast  prevailing  : 
Lord  Ullin  reach 'd  that  fatal  shore, 

His  wrath  was  clianged  to  wailing. 

For  sore  dismay'd,  through  storm  and  shade. 

His  child  he  did  discover  : 
One  lovely  hand  she  stretched  for  aid, 

And  one  was  round  her  lover. 


"  Come  back  !  come  back  ! "  he  cried  in  grief, 
"  Across  this  stormy  water  : 
And  I  '11  forgive  your  Highland  chief. 
My  daughter  !  —  O  my  daughter  I  " 

'T  was  vain;  the  loud  waves  lashed  the  shore. 
Return  or  aid  preventing  : 


THE   CRUSADER'S  RETURN.  119 

The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child,  — 
And  he  was  left  lamenting. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


THE  CRUSADER'S  RETURN. 


High  deeds  achieved  of  knightly  fame, 
From  Palestine  the  champion  came  ; 
The  cross  upon  his  shoulders  borne 
Battle  and  blast  had  dimmed  and  tora  ; 
Each  dint  upon  his  battered  shield 
Was  token  of  a  foughten  field; 
And  thus,  beneath  his  lady's  bower, 
He  sung,  as  fell  the  tvvilio-ht  hour: 


"  Joy  to  the  fair  !  —  thy  knight  behold, 
Returned  from  yonder  land  of  gold; 
No  wealth  he  brings,  nor  wealth  can  need, 
Save  his  good  arms  and  battle-steed  ; 
His  spurs  to  dash  against  a  foe, 
His  lance  and  sword  to  lay  him  low; 
Such  all  the  trophies  of  his  toil, 
Such  —  and  the  hope  of  Tekla's  smile  I 

III. 

"  Joy  to  the  fair!  whose  constant  knight 
Her  favor  fired  to  feats  of  might  ! 
Unnoted  shall  she  not  remain 
"Where  meet  the  bright  and  noble  train; 
Minstrel  shall  sing,  and  herald  tell  — 

^Mark  yonilrr  maid  of  l)eaiity  well, 


120  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

'T  is  she  for  whose  bright  eyes  was  won 
The  listed  field  of  Ascalon! 


»« '  Note  well  her  smile  !  —  it  edged  the  blade 
Which  fifty  wives  to  widows  made, 
When,  vain  his  strength  and  Mahoiind's  spell, 
Iconium's  turbaned  Soldan  fell. 
Seest  thou  her  locks,  whose  sun  ny  glow 
Half  shows,  half  shades,  her  neck  of  snow? 
Twines  not  of  them  one  golden  thread, 
But  for  its  sake  a  Paynim  bled  !  ' 

V. 

"Joy  to  the  fair!  —  My  name  unknown. 
Each  deed,  and  all  its  praise,  thine  own; 
Then,  O  !  unbar  this  churlish  gate. 
The  night-dew  falls,  the  hour  is  late. 
Inured  to  Syria's  glowing  breath, 
I  feel  the  north  breeze  chill  as  death  ; 
Let  grateful  love  quell  maiden  shame, 
And  grant  him  bliss  who  brings  thee  fame." 
Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Ivanhoe. 


ELSPETH'S  BALLAD. 


No"W  haud  your  tongue,  baith  wife  and  carle, 

And  listen  great  and  sma'. 
And  I  will  sing  of  Glenallan's  Earl 

That  fought  on  the  red  Harlaw. 

The  cronach's  cried  on  Bennachie, 
And  doun  the  Don  and  a', 


ELSPETH'S  BALLAD.  121 

And  hieland  and  lawland  may  mournfu'  be 
For  the  sair  field  of  Harlaw. 

They  saddled  a  hundred  nulk-white  steeds, 
They  hae  bridled  a  hundred  black, 

With  a  chafron  of  steel  on  each  horse's  head, 
And  a  good  knight  upon  his  back. 

They  hadna  ridden  a  mile,  a  mile, 

A  mile  but  barely  ten. 
When  Donald  came  branking  down  the  brae 

Wi'  twenty  thousand  men. 

Their  tartans  they  were  waving  wide, 
Their  glaives  were  glancing  clear, 

The  pibrochs  rung  frae  side  to  side. 
Would  deafen  ye  to  hear. 

The  great  Earl  in  his  stirrups  stood, 
That  Highland  host  to  see: 
*'  Now  here  a  knight  that 's  stout  and  good 
Ma}'  prove  a  jeopardie: 

"  What  wouldst  thou  do,  my  squire  so  gay, 
That  rides  beside  my  rein,  — 
Were  ye  Glenallan's  Earl  the  day. 
And  I  were  Roland  Cheyne  ? 

"  To  turn  the  rein  were  sin  and  shame, 
To  fight  were  wondrous  peril,  — 
What  would  ye  do  now,  Roland  Cheyne, 
Were  ye  Glenallan's  Earl?  " 

"  Wore  I  Glenallan's  Earl  this  tide, 
And  ye  were  Roland  Cheyne, 


122  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

The  spur  should  be  in  my  horse's  side, 
And  the  bridle  upon  his  mane. 

"  If  they  hae  twenty  thousand  blades, 
And  we  twice  ten  times  ten, 
Yet  they  hae  but  their  tartan  plaids, 
And  we  are  mail-clad  men. 

"  My  horse  shall  ride  through  ranks  sae  rude, 
As  through  the  moorland  fern, — 
Then  ne'er  let  the  gentle  Norman  blude 
Grow  cauld  for  Highland  kerne." 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

The  Antiquary. 


HOHENLINDEN.i 

Ok  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low. 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 
AVhen  the  drum  beat,  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  array 'd. 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 

I  The  battle  of  Hohenlinden  was  fought  between  the  French 
and  Bavarians,  under  Moreau,  and  the  Austrians,  under  the 
Arthduke  John,  Dtteniber  3,  1800,  and  resulted  in  the  defeat 
of  the  Austrians. 


HOHENLINDEN.  123 

And  furious  every  charger  neigh'd, 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  tlie  hills  with  thunder  riven, 
Then  rush'd  the  steed  to  battle  driven, 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven, 
Far  flash 'd  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  vet  that  light  shall  glow, 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow. 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

'T  is  morn,  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun. 
Where  furious  Frank,  and  fiery  Hun, 
Shout  in  their  sulph'rous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave! 
Wave,  Munich!  all  thy  banners  wave! 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry  ! 

Few,  few  shall  part  where  many  meet ! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet. 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


124  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


SONG:   THE   CAVALIER. 

While  the  dawn  on  the  mountain  was  misty  and  gray, 
My  true  love  has  mounted  his  steed  and  away, 
Over  hill,  over  valley,  o'er  dale  and  o'er  down; 
Heaven   shield  the  brave    gallant  that  fights  for  the 
crown! 

He  has   doffed   the    silk   doublet   the   breast-plate   to 

bear, 
He  has  placed  the  steel-cap  o'er  his  long  flowing  hair, 
From   his   belt   to  his    stirrup  his    broadsword  hangs 

down. 
Heaven  shield  the  brave  gallant  that  fights  for  the 


For  the   rights  of  fair  England   that  broadsword  he 

draws, 
Her  king  is  his  leader,  her  church  is  his  cause; 
His  watch-word  is  honor,  his  pay  is  renown,  — 
God  strike  with  the  gallant  that  strikes  for  the  crown ! 

They  may  boast  of  their   Fairfax,   their   Waller,  and 

all 
The  roundheaded  rebels  of  Westminster-hall; 
But  tell  these  bold  traitors  of  London's  proud  town. 
That  the  spears  of  the  north  have  encircled  the  crown. 

There  's  Derby  and  Cavendish,  dread  of  their  foes; 

There  's  Erin's  high  Ormond,  and  Scotland's  Mont- 
rose! 

Would  you  match  the  base  Skippon,  and  Massy,  and 
Brown, 

With  the  bai-ons  of  England  that  fight  for  the  crown? 


bung  the  bowl  uliicli  yoii  boast."    See  p.  123. 


GLEE  FOR  KING    CHARLES. 


12."j 


Now  joy  to  the  crest  of  the  brave  cavalier! 
Be  his  banner  unconquered,  resistless  his  spear, 
Till  in  peace  and  in  triuni[)h  his  toils  he  may  drown, 
In  a  pledge  to  fair  England,  her  church,  and  her  crown ! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


GLEE   FOR  KING   CHARLES. 

Bring  the  bowl  which  you  boast, 

Fill  it  up  to  the  brim ; 
'T  is  to  him  we  love  most. 

And  to  all  who  love  him. 
Brave  gallants,  stand  up. 

And  avaunt,  ye  base  carles! 
Were  there  death  in  tlie  cup, 

Here  's  a  Health  to  King  Charles! 

Though  he  wanders  through  dangers, 

Unaided,  unknown, 
Dependent  on  strangers. 

Estranged  from  his  own; 
Though  't  is  under  our  breath, 

Amidst  forfeits  and  perils, 
Here  's  to  honor  and  faith. 

And  a  Health  to  Kin<r  Charles! 


Let  such  honors  abound 

As  the  time  can  afford, 
The  knee  on  the  ground, 

And  the  hand  on  the  sword  ; 
But  the  time  shall  come  round, 

When,  'mid  Lords,  Dukes,  and  Earls, 


126  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

The  loud  trumpet  shall  sound, 

Here  's  a  Health  to  Kin<x  Charles! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Woodstock, 


THE    SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 

Our    bugles    sang    truce  —  for   the   night-cloud   had 
lower'd, 

And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky; 
And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpower'd, 

The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw, 
By  the  wolf-scaring  fagot  that  guarded  the  slain, 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw, 
And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamt  it  again. 

Methought  from  the  battle- field's  dreadful  array. 
Far,  far  I  had  roam'd  on  a  desolate  track; 

'T  was  autumn,  —  and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 
To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcomed  me  back. 

I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft 

In  life's  morning  march,  when  my  bosom  was  young; 

I  heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating  aloft. 

And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn-reapers 
sung. 

Then  pledged  wc  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I  swore. 
From   my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never  to 
part; 


ROSABELLE. 


127 


My  little  ones  kiss'd  me  a  thousand  times  o'er, 
And  my  wife  sobb'd  aloud  in  her  fulness  of  heart. 

Stay,  stay  with  us  —  rest,  thou  art  weary  and  worn ; 

And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay  ;  — 
Bat  sorrow  return'd  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 

And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away. 
Thomas  Campbell. 


ROSABELLE. 

O  LISTEN,  listen,  ladies  gay! 

No  haughty  feat  of  arms  I  tell; 
Soft  is  the  note,  and  sad  the  lay, 

That  mourns  the  lovely  Rosabelle. 

"  INToor,  moor  the  barge,  ye  gallant  crew! 
And,  gentle  lady,  deign  to  stay! 
Rest  thee  in  Castle  Ravensheuch, 
Nor  tempt  the  stormy  firth  to-day. 

"  The  blackening  wave  is  edged  with  white; 

To  inch  and  rock  the  sea-mews  fly, 

The  fishers  have  heard  the  water-sprite. 

Whose  screams  forebode  that  wreck  is  ni<rh, 


"  Last  night  the  gifted  si'cr  did  view 

A  wet  shroud  swathed  round  lady  gay; 
Then  stay  thee,  Fair,  in  Ravensheuch: 
Why  cross  the  gloomy  tirth  to-day?  " 

"  "Y  i-  not  because  Lord  Lindesay's  heir 
To-night  at  Roslin  leads  the  ball, 


128  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

But  that  my  lady-mother  there 
Sits  lonely  in  her  castle-hall. 

•'  'Tis  not  because  the  ring  they  ride, 
And  Lindesay  at  the  ring  rides  well, 
But  that  my  sire  the  wine  will  chide, 
If  'tis  not  filled  by  Rosabelle." 

O'er  Roslin  all  that  dreary  night 

A  wondrous  blaze  was  seen  to  gleam : 

'Twas  broader  than  the  watch-fire's  light, 
And  redder  than  the  bright  moonbeam. 

It  glared  on  Roslin's  castled  rock, 
It  ruddied  all  the  copse-wood  glen ; 

'Twas  seen  from  Dryden's  groves  of  oak, 
And  seen  from  caverned  Hawthornden. 

Seemed  all  on  fire  that  chapel  proud. 
Where  Roslin 's  chiefs  uncofl[ined  lie; 

Each  baron,  for  a  sable  shroud, 
Sheathed  in  his  iron  panoply. 

Seemed  all  on  fire,  within,  around, 
Deep  sacristry  and  altar's  pale: 

Shone  every  pillar  foliage-bound, 
And  glimmered  all  the  dead  men's  mail. 

Blazed  battlement  and  pinnet  high, 

Blazed  every  rose- carved  buttress  fair,  - 

So  still  they  blaze,  when  fate  is  nigh 
The  lordly  line  of  high  St.  Clair. 

There  are  twenty  of  Roslin's  barons  bold 
Lie  buried  within  that  proud  chapelle: 


_ 

^ 

PIBROCH   OF  DONUIL  DHU. 

Each  one  the  holy  vault  doth  hold,  — 
But  the  sea  holds  lovely  Rosabelle ! 

129 

And  each  St.  Clair  was  buried  there, 
With  candle,  with  book,  and  with  knell ; 

But  the  sea-caves  rung,  and  the  wild  winds  sungr 
The  dirge  of  lovely  Rosabelle. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

PIBROCH   OF  DONUIL   DHU. 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Pibroch  of  Donuil, 
Wake  thy  wild  voice  anew, 

Summon  Clan-Conuil. 

i                                             Come  away,  come  away, 
Hark  to  the  summons! 

Come  in  your  war  array, 
Gentles  and  commons. 

Come  from  deep  glen,  and 
From  mountain  so  rocky, 

The  war-pipe  and  pennon 

Are  at  Inverlochy : 
Come  every  hill-plaid,  and 

True  heart  that  wears  one. 
Come  every  steel  blade,  and 

Strong  hand  that  bears  one. 

Leave  untendcd  the  herd, 
The  flock  without  shelter; 

Leave  the  corpse  uninterr'd, 
The  bride  at  the  altar; 

130  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer, 

Leave  nets  and  barges; 
Come  with  your  fighting  gear, 

Broadswords  and  targes. 

Come  as  the  winds  come,  when 

Forests  are  rended; 
Come  as  the  waves  come,  when 

Navies  are  stranded; 
Faster  come,  faster  come, 

Faster  and  faster. 
Chief,  vassal,  page,  and  groom, 

Tenant  and  master. 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come  ; 

See  how  they  gather! 
Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume. 

Blended  with  heather. 
Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades, 

Forward  each  man  set  1 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Knell  for  the  onset ! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


LOVE   OF   COUNTRY.i 

Breathes  there  the  man,  with  soul  so  dead. 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said. 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land! 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned. 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned. 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand? 
I  This  is  an  extract  from  the  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel. 


LIFE  AND  DEATH.  1^1 

If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well: 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim; 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelt", 
The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self. 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown. 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung. 

Sir  AValter  Scott. 


LIFE   AND   DEATH. 

Life  I  I  know  not  what  thou  art, 
But  know  that  thou  and  I  must  part; 
And  when,  or  how,  or  where  we  met 
I  own  to  me  's  a  secret  yet. 

Life!  we  've  been  long  together 
Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather; 
'T  is  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear,  — 
Perhaps  't  will  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear; 
Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning, 

Choose  thine  own  time; 
Say  not  Good  Night,  —  but  in  some  brighter  clime 

Bid  me  Good  Morning. 

Anna  L^titia  Barbauld.^ 

1  Anna  L.etitia  Barbauld,  the  daughter  of  the  Rev.  John 
Aikin,  was  born  in  1743,  and  married  in  1774  to  the  Rev. 
Rochemont  Barbauld,  a  dissenting  minister.  Slie  was  a  prolitic 
writer,  cliieHy  for  children  and  on  educational  and  political  sub- 
jects. Some  of  her  poems  have  considerable  merit.  She  died  in 
1825. 


RHSHlE^affii 


132  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


THE    BURIAL    OF   SIR    JOHN    MOORE,- AT 
CORUNNA.i 

Not  a  dnina  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corpse  to  the  ramparts  we  hurried; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning; 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light 

And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast. 

Not  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound  him; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow. 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought  as  we  hoUow'd  his  narrow  bed 

And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow. 
That  the  foe  and  the   stranger  would  tread    o'er  his 
head, 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow  I 

1  The  British  army,  under  Sir  John  Moore,  entered  Spain  in 
1808.  They  were  forced  to  retreat  before  the  French  to  Corunna, 
where  they  made  a  gallant  stand,  and  after  hard  fighting  re- 
pulsed the  French,  January  16,  1809.  Sir  John  Moore  was  fa- 
tally wounded  in  this  battle  and  buried  the  same  night.  The 
next  day  the  army  was  safely  embarked  on  board  the  British 
leet. 


BOAT  SONG.  133 

Lightly  they  '11  talk  of  tlie  spirit  that 's  gone, 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  npbraid  him,  — 

But  little  he  '11  reck  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone,  — 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 

Charles  Wolfe.^ 


BOAT   SONG. 


Hail  to  the  chief  who  in  triumph  advances! 

Honored  and  blessed  be  the  evergreen  pine! 
Long  may  the  tree  in  his  banner  that  glances 
Flourish,  the  shelter  and  grace  of  our  line! 
Heaven  send  it  happy  dew, 
Earth  lend  it  sap  anew, 
Ga}ly  to  boui-geon,  and  broadly  to  grow  ; 
While  every  highland  glen 
Sends  our  shout  back  again, 
"  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho!  ieroe!  " 

1  Charles  Wolfe,  a  connection  of  (Jeneral  James  Wolfe,  the 
*iero  of  Quebec,  was  bom  in  Dublin,  1791,  and  educated  at  Dub- 
lin University.  He  entered  the  church  and  became  curate  of 
Donoughmore.  He  wrote,  besides  sermons,  various  essays  and 
•ome  poetry,  but  has  secured  a  lasting  remembrance  by  thL< 
jingle  famous  poem.     He  died  at  Cork  in  1823. 


134  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Ours  is  no  sapling,  chance-sown  by  the  fountain, 

Blooming  at  Beltane,  in  winter  to  fade ; 
When  the  whirlwind  has  stripped  every  leaf   on  the 
mountain, 
The  more  shall  Clan- Alpine  exult  in  her  shade. 
Moored  in  the  rifted  rock, 
Proof  to  the  tempest's  shook, 
Firmer  he  roots  him  the  ruder  it  blow; 

Menteith  and  Breadalbane,  then, 
Echo  his  praise  again, 
"  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho!  ieroe!  " 

Proudly  our  pibroch  has  thrilled  in  Glen  Fruin, 

And  Bannachar's  groans  to  our  slogan  replied, 
Glen  Luss  and  Ross-dhu,  they  ai'e  smoking  in  ruin. 
And  the  best  of  Loch- Lomond  lie  dead  on  her  side. 
Widow  and  Saxon  maid 
Long  shall  lament  our  aid, 
Think  of  Clan- Alpine  with  fear  and  with  wo; 
Lennox  and  Leven-glen 
Shake  when  they  hear  again, 
"  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho!  ieroe  !  " 

Row,  vassals,  row,  for  the  pride  of  the  highlands! 

Stretch  to  your  oars  for  the  evergreen  pine! 
0  that  the  rose-bud  that  graces  yon  islands 
Were  wreathed  in  a  garland  around  him  to  twine! 
O  that  some  seedling  gem, 
Worthy  such  noble  stem. 
Honored  and  blessed  in  their  shadow  might  grow! 
Loud  should  Clan- Alpine  then 
Ring  from  the  deepmost  glen, 
"Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho!  ieroe!  " 

Sir  Waltkk  Scott. 


SEA-SONG.  135 

SEA-SONG. 

A  WET  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  winil  that  follows  fast 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast; 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  hoys, 

While,  like  the  eagle  free, 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee. 

O  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind! 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cry  ; 
But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze. 

And  white  waves  heaving  high; 
And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  lads, 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free,  — 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 

There  's  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud  ; 
But  hark  the  music,  mariners! 

The  wind  is  piping  loud ; 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys. 

The  lightning  flashes  free,  — 
AVhile  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is. 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 

Allan  Cuxxingham.^ 

1  Allan  CuNNiNOTiAur,  born  in  Scotland  in  1785,  was  the  son 
of  a  gardener.  In  1810  lie  removed  to  London,  where  he  wrote 
for  the  press,  and  in  1814  obtained  the  position  of  clerk  to  Sir 
Francis  Chantrey,  the  celebrated  sculptor,  with  wiiom  he  re- 
mained until  1841.  lie  wrote  romances,  some  poems  of  con- 
siderable len<;th,  and  many  beautiful  and  spirited  songs.  He 
died  in  1842. 


I 


136  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


SONG. 

O,  Brignal  banks  are  wild  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green, 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there, 

Would  grace  a  summer  queen. 
And  as  I  rode  by  Ualton-hall, 

Beneath  the  turrets  high, 
A  maiden  on  the  castle  wall 

Was  singing  merrily,  — 

'*  O,  Brignal  banks  are  fresh  and  fair,  | 

And  Greta  woods  are  green;  ^ 

I  'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there,  I 

Than  reign  our  English  queen."  I 

*       i 

"  If,  maiden,  thou  wouldst  wend  with  me,  \ 

To  leave  both  tower  and  town,  | 

Thou  first  must  guess  what  life  lead  we,                 •  ^, 

That  dwell  b}'  dale  and  down.                         •  Jj 

And  if  thou  canst  that  riddle  read,  p 

As  read  full  well  you  may,  | 

Then  to  the  greenwood  shalt  thou  speed  J 

As  blithe  as  queen  of  Mav."  I 

\ 

Yet  sung  she,  "  Brignal  banks  are  fair,  [j 

And  Greta  woods  are  green  ; 
I'd  rather  rove  with  Edu)und  tliere, 

Than  reign  our  English  queen. 

"  I  read  you,  by  your  bugle  horn. 
And  I)y  your  palfrey  good, 
I  read  you  for  a  ranger  sworn. 
To  keep  the  king's  greenwood." 


SONG.  137 

'•  A  ranger,  lady,  winds  his  horn, 
And  't  is  at  peep  of  light ; 
His  blast  is  heard  at  merry  morn, 
And  mine  at  dead  of  night." 

Yet  sung  she,  "Brignal  banks  are  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  gay, 
I  would  I  were  with  Edmund  there, 

To  reign  his  queen  of  May  ! 

"  With  burnished  brand  and  musquetoon, 
So  galhmtly  you  come, 
I  read  you  for  a  bold  dragoon, 
That  lists  the  tuck  of  drum." 
"  I  list  no  more  the  tuck  of  drum, 
No  more  the  trumpet  hear ; 
But  when  the  beetle  sounds  his  hum. 
My  comrades  take  the  spear. 

' '  And  O !  though  Brignal  banks  be  fair, 
And  Greta  woods  be  gny, 
Yet  mickle  must  the  maiden  dare, 
Would  reign  my  queen  of  May  ! 

"  Maiden  !  a  nameless  life  I  lead, 

A  nameless  death  I  '11  die; 
The  fiend  whose  lantern  lights  the  mead 

Were  better  mate  than  I! 
And  when  T  'm  with  my  comrades  met, 

Beneath  the  greenwood  bough, 
What  once  we  were  we  all  forget. 

Nor  tliink  what  we  are  now. 

*'  Yet  Brignal  biinks  arc  frcsli  and  fair, 
And  Greta  Wdods  ;ii(>  'jrecn, 


138  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

And  you  may  gather  garlands  there, 
Would  grace  a  summer  queen." 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


SONG. 

**  A  WEARY  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid, 

A  weary  lot  is  thine! 
To  pull  the  thorn,  thy  brow  to  braid, 

And  press  tlie  rue  for  wine! 
A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, 

A  feather  of  the  blue, 
A  doublet  of  the  Lincoln  green,  — 

No  more  of  me  you  knew, 

My  love! 

No  more  of  me  you  knew. 

"  The  morn  is  merry  June,  I  trow. 
The  rose  is  budding  fain. 
But  she  shiiU  bloom  in  winter  snow, 

Ere  we  two  meet  again." 
He  turned  liis  charger  as  he  spake. 

Upon  the  river  shore. 
He  gave  his  bridle  reins  a  shake, 
Said,  "  Adieu  for  evermore, 

My  love  ! 
And  adieu  for  evermore." 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


BATTLE  OF  TEE  BALTIC.  139 


BATTLE    OF   THE   BALTIC* 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North, 

Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 

When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 

All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown, 

And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone; 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand, 

In  a  bold  determined  hand. 

And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 

Led  them  on. 

Like  leviathans  afloat. 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine ; 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line  : 

It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime  : 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path. 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death; 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath, 

For  a  time. 

But  the  nught  of  England  flush'd 
To  anticipate  the  scene; 
And  her  van  the  fleeter  rush'd 
O'er  the  deadly  space  between. 
"  Hearts  of  oak!  "  our  captains  cried:  when  each  gun 
From  its  adamantine  lips 
Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships. 
Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun. 

1  Copenhagen  was  bombarded  by  tlie  English  fleet,  under  Lord 
Nelson  and  Admiral  Parker,  in  April,  1801,  and  the  Danish  fleet 
nas  almost  totally  destroyed  in  tl)e  engagement. 


140  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Again!  again!  again! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 

Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back; 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom: 

Then  ceased  —  and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shatter'd  sail 

Or,  in  conflagration  pale, 

Light  the  gloom. 

Out  spoke  the  victor  then. 
As  he  hail'd  them  o'er  the  wave; 
"  Ye  are  brothers!  ye  are  men! 
And  we  conquer  but  to  save: 
So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring; 
But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet, 
With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 
And  make  submission  meet 
To  our  King." 

Then  Denmark  blest  our  chief. 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose; 

And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 

From  her  people  wildly  rose, 

As  death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day. 

While  the  sun  look'd  smiling  bright 

O'er  a  wide  and  woeful  sight. 

Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 

Died  away. 

Now  joy,  old  England,  raise! 

For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 

By  the  festal  cities'  blaze. 

While  the  wine-cup  shines  in  light ; 

And  yet  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 


YE  MARINERS   OF  ENGLAND.         Ul 

Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep, 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore  ! 

Brave  hearts!  to  Britain's  pride 

Once  so  faithful  and  so  true, 

On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died, 

With  the  gallant  good  Riou  :  ^ 

Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  Heaven  o'er  their  grave ! 

While  the  billow  mournful  rolls 

And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles. 

Singing  glory  to  the  souls 

Of  the  brave! 

Thomas  Campbell. 


YE   MARINERS   OF   ENGLAND. 


Ye  mariners  of  England! 

Tiiat  guard  our  native  seas; 

Whose  flag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years, 

The  battle  and  the  breeze! 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 

To  match  another  foe  ! 

And  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  tempests  blow; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 

And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 

^  Captain  Riou,  justly  entitled  the  gallant  and  the  good  by 
Lord  Nelson,  when  he  wrote  liome  his  dispatches. 


142  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

ir. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave !  — 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  ocean  was  their  grave: 

"\Miere  Blfike  and  mighty  Nelson  fell, 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  tempests  blow; 

^Vhile  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 

And  the  stormy  tempests  blow.  * 

III. 
Britannia  needs  no  bulwark. 
No  towers  along  the  steep; 
Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain-waves, 
Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 
With  thunders  from  her  native  oak, 
She  quells  the  floods  below,  — 
As  they  roar  on  the  shore. 
When  the  stormy  tempests  blow  ; 
When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 

IV. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn ; 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart. 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean-warriors! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


THE  FORAY. 


143 


BORDER  BALLAD. 

March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale, 

Why  the  dfil  dinna  ye  march  forward  in  order? 
March,  march,  Eskdale  and  Liddesdale, 

All  the  Blue  Bonnets  are  bound  for  the  Border 

Many  a  banner  spread 

Flutters  above  your  head, 
Many  a  crest  that  is  famous  in  story. 

Mount  and  make  ready  then, 

Sons  of  the  mountain  glen, 
Fight  for  the  Queen  and  our  old  Scottish  glory. 

Come  from  the  hills  where  your  hirsels  are  grazing, 

Come  from  the  glen  of  the  buck  and  the  roe; 
Come  to  the  crag  where  the  beacon  is  blazing, 
Come  with  the  buckler,  the  lance,  and  the  bow. 
Trumpets  are  sounding, 
War-steeds  are  bounding, 
Stand  to  your  arms,  then,  and  march  in  good  order, 
England  shall  many  a  day 
Tell  of  the  bloody  fray, 
When  the  Blue  Bonnets  came  over  the  Border. 
Sir  Waltku  Scott. 

The  Monastery. 


THE    FORAY. 

The  last  of  our  steers  on  the  board  has  been  spread, 
And  the  last  flask  of  wine  in  our  goblet  is  red  ; 
Jp!  up,  my  brave  kinsmen!  belt  swords  and  begone, 
There  are  dangers  to  dare,  and  there  's  spoil  to  be  won. 


144  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

The  eyes  that  so  lately  mixed  glances  with  ours 
For  a  space  must  be  dim,  as  they  gaze  from  the  towers, 
And  strive  to  distinguish,  through  tempest  and  gloom, 
The  prance  of  the  steed  and  the  toss  of  the  plume. 

The  rain  is  descending;  the  wind  rises  loud  ; 
And  the  moon  her  red  beacon  has  veiled  with  a  cloud; 
'T  is  the  better,  my  mates!  for  the  warder's  dull  eye 
Shall  in  confidence  slumber,  nor  dream  we  are  nigh. 

Our  steeds  are  impatient!  I  hear  my  blithe  Gray! 
There  is  life  in  his  hoof-clang,  and  hope  in  his  neigh; 
Like  the  flash  of  a  meteor,  the  glance  of  his  mane 
Shall  marshal  your  march  through  the  darkness  and 
rain. 

The  drawbridge  has  dropped,  the  bugle  has  blown; 
One   pledge  is   to   quaff   yet  —  then   mount   and   be- 
gone ! 
To  their  honor  and  peace,  that  shall  rest  with  the  slain, 
To  their  health  and  their  glee,  that  see  Teviot  again! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


THE  JOURNEY   ONWARDS. 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track 

Against  the  wind  was  cleaving. 
Her  trembling  pennant  still  look'd  back 

To  that  dear  isle  't  was  leaving. 
So  loath  we  part  from  all  we  love. 

From  all  the  links  that  bind  us ; 
So  turn  our  hearts,  as  on  we  rove, 

To  those  we  've  left  behind  us  ! 


TEE  JOURNEY  ONWARDS.  145 

When,  round  the  bowl,  of  vanish'd  years 

We  talk  with  joyous  seeming  — 
With  smiles  that  might  as  well  be  tears, 

So  faint,  so  sad  their  beaming; 
While  memory  brings  us  back  again 

Each  early  tie  that  twined  us, 
O,  sweet  's  the  cup  that  circles  then 

To  those  we  've  left  behind  us! 

And  when,  in  other  climes,  we  meet 

Some  isle  or  vale  enchanting. 
Where  all  looks  flowery  wild  and  sweet. 

And  nought  but  love  is  wanting; 
We  think  how  great  had  been  our  bliss 

If  Heaven  had  but  assign 'd  us 
To  live  and  die  in  scenes  like  this, 

With  some  we  've  left  behind  usl 

As  travellers  oft  look  back  at  eve 

When  eastward  darkly  going, 
To  gaze  upon  that  light  they  leave 

Still  faint  behind  them  glowing,  — 
So,  when  the  close  of  pleasure's  day 

To  gloom  hath  near  consign'd  us, 
We  turn  to  catch  one  fading  ray 

Of  joy  that  's  left  behind  us. 

Thomas  Moore.^ 

1  Thomas  Moore,  the  son  of  a  respectable  Koman  Catholic 
gi'ocer,  was  born  in  Dublin,  in  May,  1779.  He  was  educated  at 
the  Dublin  schools  and  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  He  began  to 
write  verses  and  love  songs  at  an  early  age,  and  on  going  to 
Ixjndon  to  study  law,  after  leaving  college,  he  returned  to  his 
early  love  for  literature.  He  soon  abandoned  the  law,  obtained 
a  place  under  government,  travelled  in  America,  and  linally 
settled  in  England  to  lead  a  literary  life.  He  made  money  from 
his  writings,  and  received  a  pension  from  the  government.  He 
10 


146  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

JOCK  OF  HAZELDEAN. 


"  Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie? 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide  ? 
I  '11  wed  ye  to  my  youngest  son, 

And  ye  sail  be  his  bride  : 
And  ye  sail  be  his  bride,  ladie, 

Sae  comely  to  be  seen  "  — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa* 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

II. 

"  Now  let  this  wilfu'  grief  be  done, 

And  dry  that  .cheek  so  pale  : 
Young  Frank  is  chief  of  Ei-rington, 

And  lord  of  Langley-dale; 
His  step  is  first  in  peaceful  ha', 

His  sword  in  battle  keen  "  — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

III. 
"  A  chain  of  gold  ye  sail  not  lack. 
Nor  braid  to  bind  your  hair; 
Nor  mettled  hound,  nor  managed  hawk, 

Nor  palfrey  fresh  and  fair; 
And  you,  the  foremost  o'  them  a'. 
Shall  ride  our  forest  queen  "  — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 
For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

was  the  intimate  friend  of  Lord  Byron,  and  of  many  of  the  men 
if  the  day  most  famous  in  politics  and  literature.  His  most 
ambitious  work  was  Lalla  EooJch,  but  his  fame  rests  chiefly  on 
his  songs  and  lyrics.     He  died  in  1852. 


THE  INC HC APE  ROCK.  147 

IV. 

The  kirk  was  decked  at  morning- tide, 

The  tapers  glimmered  fair; 
The  priest  and  bridegroom  wait  the  bride, 

And  dame  and  knight  were  there. 
Tliey  sought  her  baith  by  bovver  and  ha' ; 

The  ladie  was  not  seen! 
She  's  o'er  the  Border,  and  awa' 

Wi'  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


THE  INCHCAPE  ROCK. 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea. 
The  ship  was  still  as  she  could  be; 
Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  motion; 
Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without  either  sign  or  sound  of  their  shock, 
The  waves  flowed  over  the  Inchcape  Rock  ; 
So  little  they  rose,  so  little  they  fell, 
They  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  Bell. 

The  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok 
Had  placed  that  Bell  on  the  Inchcape  Rock ; 
On  a  buoy  in  the  storm  it  floated  and  swung, 
And  over  the  waves  its  warning  rung. 

When  the  Rock  was  hid  by  the  surge's  swell, 
The  mariners  heard  the  warning  bell ; 
And  then  they  knew  the  perilous  Rock, 
And  blest  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok. 

The  sun  in  heaven  was  shining  gay; 
All  things  were  joyful  on  that  day; 


+ 


148  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

The  sea-birds  screamed  as  they  wheeled  round, 
And  there  was  jojance  in  their  sound. 

The  buu}-  of  the  Inchcape  Bell  was  seen, 
A  darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green: 
Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  walked  his  deck, 
And  he  fixed  his  eye  on  the  darker  speck. 

He  felt  the  cheerinn;  power  of  spring  ; 
It  made  him  whistle,  it  made  him  sing: 
His  heart  was  mirthful  to  excess, 
But  the  Rover's  mirth  was  wickedness. 

His  eye  was  on  the  Inchcape  float ; 
Quoth  he,  "  My  men,  put  out  the  boat, 
And  row  me  to  the  Inchcape  Rock, 
And  I  '11  plague  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok." 

The  boat  is  lowered,  the  boatmen  row, 

And  to  the  Inchcape  Rock  they  go  ; 

Sir  Ralph  bent  over  from  the  boat, 

And  he  cut  the  bell  from  the  Inchcape  float. 

Down  sunk  the  Bell  with  a  gurgling  sound; 

The  bubbles  rose  and  burst  around: 

Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  The  next  who  comes  to  the  rock 

Won't  bless  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok." 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  sailed  away  ; 
He  scoured  the  seas  for  many  a  day; 
And  now,  grown  rich  with  phindered  store. 
He  steers  his  coin-se  for  Scotland's  shore. 

So  thick  a  haze  o'erspreads  the  sky, 
They  cannot  see  the  sun  on  high: 


THE  INC HC APE  ROCK.  149 

The  wind  hath  blown  a  gale  all  day; 
At  evening  it  hath  died  away. 

On  the  deck  the  Rover  takes  his  stand ; 
So  dark  it  is,  they  see  no  land. 
Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  It  will  be  lighter  soon, 
For  there  is  the  dawn  of  the  rising  moon." 

"  Canst  hear,"  said  one,  "  the  breakers  roar? 

For  methinks  we  should  be  near  the  shore." 
"  Now  where  we  are  I  cannot  tell. 

But  I  wish  I  could  hear  the  Inchcape  Bell. " 

They  hear  no  sound ;  the  swell  is  strong  ; 
Though  the  wind  hath  fallen,  they  drift  along, 
Till  the  vessel  strikes  with  a  shivering  shock: 
"  O  Christ!  it  is  the  Inchcape  Rock!  " 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  tore  his  hair; 
He  cursed  himself  in  his  despair: 
The  waves  rush  in  on  every  side  ; 
The  ship  is  sinking  beneath  the  tide. 

But,  even  in  his  dying  fear, 
One  dreadful  sound  could  the  Rover  hear,  — 
A  sound  as  if,  with  the  Inchcape  Bell, 
The  Devil  below  was  ringing  his  knell. 

Robert  South  ey.* 

1  Robert  Southey,  the  son  of  a  linen  draper  of  Bristol,  was 
^^  -n  in  1774,  educated  at  Bristol  and  Westminster,  and  at  Ba- 
i\ol  College,  Oxford.  He  tried  the  law,  held  a  few  offices,  and 
then  betook  himself  to  literature,  to  which  he  devoted  his  life. 
He  was  made  poet-laureate  in  1813,  and  held  this  post  until  his 
d^ath,  in  1843.  His  works,  both  in  prose  and  in  verse,  are  very 
numerous,  and  are  nearly  all  unread  at  the  present  day. 


150  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


THE   LAMENTATION   FOR   CELIN. 

At  the  gate  of   old  Granada,  when  all   its  bolts  are 

barred, 
At  twilight,  at   the  Vega-gate,  there  is   a  trampling 

heard ; 
There  is  a  trampling  heard,  as  of  horses  treading  slow, 
And  a  weeping  voice  of  women,  and  a  heavy  sound  of 

woe  ! 
"  What  tower  is  fallen,  what  star  is   set,  what  chief 

come  these  bewailing?  " 
"  A  tower  is   fallen,    a  star   is  set!  —  Alas!    alas  for 

CeUn!" 

Three  times  they  knock,  three  times  they  cry, — and 
wide  the  doors  they  throw; 

Dejectedly  they  enter,  and  mournfully  they  go; 

In  gloomy  lines  they  mustering  stand,  beneath  the  hol- 
low porch, 

Each  horseman  grasping  in  his  hand  a  black  and  flam- 
ing torch ; 

Wet  is  each  eye  as  they  go  by,  and  all  around  is  wail- 

For  all  have  heard  the  misery.  —  "Alas!  alas  for 
Celin!" 

Him,    yesterday,    a   Moor   did    slay,   of    Bencerraje's 

blood,  — 
'Twas   at   the   solemn  jou?ting  —  around  the   nobles 

stood ; 
The  nobles  of  the  land  were  by,  and  ladies  bright  and 

fair 
Looked  from  their  latticed  windows,  the  haughty  sight 

to  share ; 


THE  LAMENTATION  FOR   CELIN.      151 

But  now  the  nobles  all  lament  —  the  ladies  are  bewail- 
ing — 

For  he  was  Granada's  darling  knight.  —  "Alas!  alas 
for  Celin!" 

Before  him  ride  his  vassals,  in  order  two  by  two, 
With  ashes  on   their  turbans  spread,   most  pitiful   to 

view ; 
Behind  him  his  four  sisters,  each  wrapped  in  sable  veil. 
Between    the  tambour's  dismal   strokes   take  up  their 

doleful  tale; 
When  stops  the  muffled  drum,  ye  hear  their  brother- 
less  bewailing. 
And  all  the  people,  far  and   near,  cry —  "  Alas!  alas 
for  Celin ! " 

O!  lovely  lies  he  on  the  bier,  above  the  purple  pall, 
The  flower  of  all  Granada's  youth,  the  loveliest  of  them 

all; 
His  dark,  dark  eyes  are  closed,  his  rosy  lip  is  pale. 
The  crust  of  blood  lies  black  and  dim  upon  his  bur- 
nished mail ; 
And  evermore  the  hoarse  tambour  breaks  in  upon  their 

wailing, 
Its  sound  is  like  no  earthly  sound — "Alas!  alas  for 
Celin  !  " 

The  Moorish  maid  at  the  lattice  stands,  the  Moor 
stands  at  his  door; 

One  maid  is  wringing  of  her  hands,  and  one  is  weep- 
ing sore; 

Down  to  the  dust  men  bow  their  heads,  and  ashes 
black  they  strew 

Upon  their  broidered  garments,  of  crimson,  green,  and 
blue; 


152  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Before  each   gate  the  bier  stands  still,  —  then  bursts 

the  loud  bewailing, 
From   door  and   lattice,  high  and  low — "Alas!  alas 

for  Celin!" 

An  old,  old  woman  cometh  forth,  when  she  hears  the 

people  cry, — 
Her  hair  is  white  as  silver,  like  horn  her  glazed  eye: 
'T  was  she  that  nursed  him  at  her  breast,  that  nursed 

him  long  ago; 
She  knows  not  whom  they  all  lament,   but  soon   she 

well  shall  know! 
With  one  deep  shriek,  she  thro'  doth  break,  when  her 

ears  receive  their  wailing  — 
"Let   me  Jciss   my  Celin   ere   I  die  —  Alas  I  alas  for 

Celin!" 

J.    G.    LOCKHART.I 

Spanish  Ballads. 

1  John  Gibson  Lockhart,  born  in  1794,  in  Lanarkshire, 
Scotland,  was  educated  at  Glasgow,  and  admitted  to  the  Scotch 
bar  in  181G.  He  contributed  to  the  magazines  of  the  day,  and 
his  literary  propensities  were  confirmed  by  his  marriage,  in  1820, 
with  Sophia,  the  eldest  daughter  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  In  1826  he 
removed  to  London  and  accepted  the  editorship  of  the  London 
Quarterly  Review,  a  position  which  he  retained  until  1853.  He 
wrote  many  essays,  and  some  biographical  and  historical  works 
as  well  as  romances.  His  best  works  are  his  life  of  Scott  and 
his  translations  of  the  ancient  Spanish  ballads  He  died  in 
1854. 


" She  thai  uuibed  him  lung  ago."     See  p.  152- 


SHE    WALKS  IN  BEAUTY.  153 


THE   PRIDE   OF  YOUTH. 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood, 

Walking  so  early; 
Sweet  Robin  sits  on  the  bush, 

Singing  so  rarely. 

"  Tell  me,  thou  bonny  bird. 

When  shall  I  marry  me  ?  " 
"  When  six  braw  gentlemen 

Kirk  ward  shall  carry  ye." 

"  Who  makes  the  bridal  bed, 

Birdie,  say  truly?  " 
**  The  gray-headed  sexton 

That  delves  the  grave  duly. 

"  The  glow-worm  o'er  grave  and  stone 
Shall  light  thee  steady  ; 
The  owl  from  the  steeple  sing, 
Welcome,  proud  lady." 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 
Heart  of  Mid-Lothian. 


SHE  WALKS  IN   BEAUTY. 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies; 

And  all  that 's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meets  in  her  aspect  and  her  eves: 

Thus  mellow'd  to  that  tender  light 
Which  iieaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 


154  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

One  shade  tlie  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  inipair'd  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face; 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow. 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent ! 

Lord  Byron. ^ 


SHE   WAS   A   PHANTOM   OF   DELIGHT. 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 

AVhen  first  she  gleam'd  upon  my  sight; 

1  George  Gordon,  Lord  Byron,  the  descendant  of  a  very 
old,  noble,  and  distinguished  family,  of  which  he  was  the  last 
representative,  was  born  in  1788,  and  educated  at  Harrow  and 
at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  He  had  a  head  and  face  of  great 
beauty,  and  an  athletic  frame,  but  he  was  deformed  and  incura- 
bly lame.  His  first  verses  were  a  failure;  but  on  his  return 
from  travelling  in  the  East,  in  3811,  he  published  the  first  two 
cantos  of  Childe  Harold,  and  sprang  at  once  into  world-wide 
reputation.  He  married  Miss  Millbanke  in  181.5,  and  in  the  fol- 
lowing year  they  separated.  Lord  Byron  returned  to  voluntary 
exile  on  the  Continent,  and  never  came  back  to  England.  He 
headed  an  expedition  for  the  liberation  of  Greece  in  1823,  and 
died  at  Jlissolonghi  in  1824.  He  ■ivrote  many  poems,  and  both 
the  longer  ones,  like  Childe  Harold,  and  the  short  lyrics  and 
songs,  are  among  the  gi-eatest  works  of  English  poetry.  His 
career  was  tarnished  and  his  great  genius  sullied  by  reckless 
dissipation,  by  a  bitter  temper,  and  by  an  arrogant  and  vain  dis' 
X)sition. 


SHE    WAS  A   PHANTOM  OF  DELIGHT.    155 

A  lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair; 
Like  Twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn ; 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay. 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too  ! 

Her  household  motions,  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet; 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food. 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  between  life  and  death ; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill; 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  plann'd 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel-light. 

William   Wokdsworth.^ 

1  William  Wordsworth  was  born  in  Cumberland  in  1770, 
jnd  was  educated  at  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge.  He  inher- 
ted  sufficient  projjerty  to  render  iiim  independent,  and  after  liv- 
ing for  a  time  in  Dorsetshire,  he  finally  established  himself  at 


156  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


HYMN   FOR   THE   DEAD.i 

That  day  of  wrath,  that  dreadful  day, 
When  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away. 
What  power  shall  be  the  sinner's  stay? 
How  shall  he  meet  that  dreadful  day? 

When,  shrivelling  like  a  parched  scroll, 
The  flaming  heavens  together  roll ; 
When  louder  yet,  and  yet  more  dread, 
Swells  the  high  trump  that  wakes  the  dead ! 

O  !  on  that  day,  that  wrathful  day. 
When  man  to  judgment  wakes  from  clay, 
Be  Thou  the  trembling  sinner's  stay. 
Though  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away  ! 
Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Rydal  Mount,  among  the  English  Lakes,  where  he  remained 
until  ills  death.  He  had  a  sinecure  position  under  government, 
and  subsequently  a  pension,  and  in  1843  he  was  made  poet- 
laureate,  on  the  death  of  Southey.  He  died  in  1850.  He  was 
a  prolific  writer  of  verse,  much  of  which  is  esteemed  of  great 
beauty,  and  he  is  considered  by  his  admirers  to  hold  the  next 
place  to  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  an  opinion  from  which  many 
persons  dissent.  He  was  the  most  famous  of  the  "  Lake  School " 
of  poets,  and  represented,  perhaps,  better  than  any  one  else,  the 
reaction  of  the  nineteenth  century  against  the  school  of  Pope, 
and  the  change  from  the  highly  artificial  to  the  simple  and 
natural  in  poetry. 

1  This  is  a  translation  of  a  portion  of  the  Dies  fra,  the  mo«t 
famous  hymn  of  the  early  church.  Macaulay  has  translated  the 
whole  hymn,  and  other  versions,  including  an  excellent  one  by 
the  late  General  Dix,  are  to  be  found  in  a  little  volume  entitled 
The  Seven  Great  Hymns  of  the  Mediceval  Church. 


DESTRUCTlOy   OF  SENNACHERIB.     157 


THE   DESTRUCTION   OF   SENNACHERIB. 

The  Ass\Tian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold  ; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on  the  sea, 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Summer  is  green, 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen  : 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Autumn  hath  blown, 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  wither'd  and  strown. 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  breath'd  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  pass'd, 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  wax'd  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heav'd,  and  forever  gi'ew  still  I 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide, 
But  through  it  there  rolled  not  the  breath  of  his  pride  : 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider,  distorted  and  pale. 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow,  and  the  rust  on  his  mail; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone. 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail. 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal  ; 
.And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord  ! 

Lord  Byuon. 


158  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


REBECCA'S   HYMN. 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  boloved, 

Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  came, 
Her  fathers'  God  before  her  moved, 

An  awful  guide  in  smoke  and  flame. 
By  day,  along  the  astonished  lauds, 

The  cloudy  pillar  glided  slow ; 
By  night,  Arabia's  crimsoned  sands 

Returned  the  fiery  column's  glow. 

There  rose  the  choral  hymn  of  praise. 

And  trump  and  timln-el  answered  keen. 
And  Zion's  daughters  poured  their  lays, 

With  priest's  and  warrior's  voice  between. 
No  portents  now  our  foes  amaze, 

Forsaken  Israel  wanders  lone  : 
Our  fathers  would  not  know  Thy  ways, 

And  Thou  hast  left  them  to  their  own. 

But  present  still,  though  now  unseen  ! 

When  brightly  shines  the  prosperous  day, 
Be  thoughts  of  Thee  a  cloudy  screen 

To  temper  the  deceitful  ray. 
And  O,  when  stoops  on  Judah's  path 

In  shade  and  storm  the  frequent  night, 
Be  Thou,  long-suffering,  slow  to  wrath, 

A  burning  and  a  shining  light ! 

Our  harps  we  left  by  Babel's  streams, 
The  tyrant's  jest,  the  Gentile's  scorn  : 

No  censer  round  our  iiltar  beams. 

And  mute  are  timbrel,  harp,  and  horn. 


VISION  OF  BELSHAZZAB.  159 

But  Thou  hast  said,   "  The  blood  of  goat, 

The  flesh  of  rams,  I  will  not  prize  ; 
A  contrite  heart,  a  humble  thought, 
Are  mine  accepted  sacrifice." 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Ivanhoe. 


VISION    OF   BELSHAZZAB. 

The  King  was  on  his  throne, 

The  satraps  throng 'd  the  hall; 
A  thousand  bright  lamps  shone 

O'er  that  high  festival. 
A  thousand  cups  of  gold, 

In  Judah  deem'd  divine,  — 
Jehovah's  vessels  hold 

The  godless  Heathen's  wine! 

In  that  same  hour  and  hall, 

The  fingers  of  a  hand 
Came  forth  against  the  wall, 

And  wrote  as  if  on  sand: 
The  fingers  of  a  man  ;  — 

A  solitary  hand 
Along  the  letters  ran, 

And  traced  them  like  a  wand. 

The  monarch  saw  and  shook, 
And  bade  no  more  rejoice; 

All  bloodless  wax'd  his  look. 
And  tremulous  his  voice. 
"  Let  the  men  of  lore  appear 
The  wisest  of  the  earth, 


160  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS 

And  expound  the  words  of  fear, 
Wliicli  mar  our  royal  mirth." 

Chaldea's  seers  are  good, 

But  here  they  have  no  skill; 
And  the  unknown  letters  stood 

Untold  and  awful  still. 
And  Babel's  men  of  age 

Are  wise  and  deep  in  lore; 
But  now  they  were  not  sage. 

They  saw —  but  knew  no  more. 

A  captive  in  the  land, 

A  stranger  and  a  youth, 
He  heard  the  King's  command, 

He  saw  that  writing's  truth. 
The  lamps  around  were  bright, 

The  prophecy  in  view ; 
He  read  it  on  that  night,  — 

The  morrow  proved  it  true. 

"  Belshazzar's  grave  is  made. 
His  kingdom  pass'd  away, 
He,  in  the  balance  weigh'd, 

Is  light  and  worthless  clay. 
The  shroud  his  robe  of  state. 

His  canopy  the  stone; 
'  The  Mede  is  at  his  gate! 

The  Persian  on  his  throne ! ' ' 

Lord  Byron. 


THE  BRIDAL    OF  ANDALL^  161 


THE   BRIDAL   OF  ANDALLA. 

"  Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa  !  lay  the  golden  cushion 
down ; 

Rise  up,  come  to  the  window,  and  gaze  with  all  the 
town! 

From  gay  guitar  and  violin  the  silver  notes  are  flowing. 

And  the  lovely  lute  doth  speak  between  the  trumpet's 
lordly  blowing. 

And  banners  bright  from  lattice  light  are  waving  every- 
where, 

And  the  tall,  tall  plume  of  our  cousin's  bridegi-oom 
floats  proudly  in  the  air: 

Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa!  lay  the  golden  cushion  down; 

Rise  up,  come  to  the  window,  and  gaze  with  all  the 
town ! 

"  Arise,  arise,  Xarifa!  I  see  Andalla's  face,  — 

He  bends  him  to  the  people  with  a  calm  and  princely 

grace ; 
Through  all  the  land  of  Xeres  and  banks  of  Guadal- 

quiver 
Rode  forth  bridegroom  so  brave  as  he,  so  brave  and 

lovely,  never. 
Yon  tall  plume  waving  o'er  his  brow,  of  purple  mixed 

with  white, 
I  guess  'twas  wreathed  by  Zara,  whom  he  will  wed 

to-night! 
Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa!  lay  the  golden  cushion  down; 
Rise  up,  come  to  the  window,  and  gaze  with  all  the 

town ! 

"  What  aileth  thee,  Xarifa?   what  makes  thine  eyes 
look  down  ? 
11 


162  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Why  stay  ye  from  the  window  far,  nor  gaze  with  all 

the  town? 
I  've  heard  you  say  on  many  a  day,  and  sure  you  said 

the  truth, 
Andalla  rides   without  a  peer,   among  all    Granada's 

youth. 
Without  a  peer  he  rideth,  and  yon  milk-white  horse 

doth  go. 
Beneath  his  stately  master,  with  a   stately  step   and 

slow : 
Then  rise  —  O!  rise,  Xarifa,   lay  the  golden  cushion 

down; 
Unseen  here   through  the  lattice,  you  may  gaze  with 

all  the  town ! ' ' 

The  Zegri  lady  rose  not,  nor  laid  her  cushion  down, 
Nor  came    she    to   the  window   to   gaze   with  all   the 

town; 
But  though  her  eyes  dwelt  on  her  knee,  in  vain  her 

fingers  strove, 
And   though   her  needle   pressed   the   silk,  no  flower 

Xarifa  wove; 
One  bonny  rose-bud  she  had  traced,  before  the  noise 

drew  nigh; 
That  bonny  bud  a  tear  effaced,  slow  drooping  from  her 

eye. 
"No  —  no!"  she  sighs,  "bid  me  not  rise,  nor  lay  my 

cushion  down, 
To  gaze  upon  Andalla  with  all  the  gazing  town!  " 

"  Why  rise   ye    not,   Xarifa,  —  nor   lay  your  cushion 

down  ? 
Why  gaze  ye  not,  Xarifa,  —  with  all  the  gazing  town  ? 
Hear,  hear  the  trumpet,  how  it  swells,  and  how  the 

people  cry! 


CORONACH.  Ifi3 

He  stops  at  Zara's  palace-gate  — why  sit  ye  still  —  O, 
why?" 

"  At  Zara's  gate  stops  Zara's  mate;  in  him  shall  I  dis- 
cover 

The  dark-eyed  youth  pledged  me  his  truth  with  tears, 
and  was  my  lover? 

I  will  not  rise,  with  weary  eyes,  nor  lay  my  cushion 
down, 

To  gaze  on  false  Andalla  with  all  the  gazing  town!  " 

J.    G.    LOCKHART. 

Sjianish  Ballad*. 


CORONACH. 


He  is  gone  on  the  mountain. 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest. 
Like  a  summer-dried  fountain, 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 
The  fount,  reappearing, 

From  the  raindrops  shall  borrow, 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering, 

To  Duncan  no  morrow! 

Tiie  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary; 
But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 

Wails  manhood  in  glory. 
The  autumn  winds  rushing 

Waft  the  leaves  that  arc  searest ; 
But  our  flower  was  in  flushing 

When  blighting  was  nearest. 

Fleet  foot  on  the  corrci, 
Sage  counsel  in  cumber, 


164  BALLADS  AAD  LYRICS. 

Red  hand  in  the  foray, 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber! 

Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain, 
Like  the  foam  on  the  river, 

Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain, 
Thou  art  gone,  and  forever! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


HELVELLYN. 


I  CLIMBED  the  dark  brow  of  the  mighty  Helvellyn, 
Lakes  and  mountains  beneath  me  gleamed  misty  and 

wide; 
All  was  still,  save  by  fits,  when  the  eagle  was  yelling. 
And  starting  around  me  the  echoes  replied. 
On  the  riLiht,  Striden-edge   round  the   Red-tarn  was 

bending. 
And  Catchedioam  its  left  verge  was  defending. 
One  huge  nameless  rock  in  the  front  was  ascending, 
When  I  marked  the  sad  spot  where  the  wanderer  had 

died. 

Dark  green  was   the   spot  'mid   the  brown  mountain- 
heather, 
Where  the  Pilgrim  of  Nature  lay  stretched  in  decay. 
Like  the  corpse  of  an  outcast  abandoned  to  weather, 
Till  the  mountain  winds  wasted  the  tenantless  clay. 
Nor  yet  quite  deserted,  though  lonely  extended. 
For,  faithful  in  death,  his  mute  favoi-ite  attended, 
The  much-loved  remains  of  her  master  defended. 
And  chased  the  hill-fox  and  the  raven  away. 


"  Lakes,  mountains  beneath  me  gleamed  misty  and  weird."    See  p.  164. 


^BSK^m^^SMKI 


HELVELLYN.  165 

How  long  didst  thou  think  that  his  silence  was  slum- 
ber ? 

When  the  wind  waved  his  garment,  how  oft  didst  thou 
start  ? 

How  many  long  days  and  long  weeks  didst  thou  num- 
ber, 

Ere  he  faded  before  thee,  the  friend  of  thy  heart  ? 

And  O,  was  it  meet,  that  —  no  requiem  read  o'er 
him, 

No  mother  to  weep,  and  no  friend  to  deplore  him. 

And  thou,  little  guardian,  alone  stretched  before 
him  — 

Unhonored  the  Pilgrim  from  life  should  depart? 

When  a  Prince  to  the  fate  of  the  Peasant  has  yielded. 
The  tapestry  waves  dark  round  the  dim-lighted  hall; 
With  scutcheons  of  silver  the  coffin  is  shielded. 
And  pages  stand  mute  by  the  canopied  pall: 
Through  the  courts,  at  deep  midnight,  the  torches  are 

gleaming  ; 
In  the  proudly-arched  chapel  the  banners  are  beaming. 
Far  adown  the  long  aisle  sacred  music  is  streaming, 
Lamenting  a  chief  of  the  people  should  fall. 

But  nieeter  for  thee,  gentle  lover  of  nature, 

To  lay  down  thy  head  like  the  meek  mountain  lamb, 

When,    wildered,   he  drops   from    some   cliff   huge  in 

stature. 
And  draws  his  last  sol)  by  the  side  of  his  dam. 
And  more  stately  thy  couch  by  this  desert  lake  lying, 
Thy  obsequies  sung  by  the  gray  plover  flying. 
With  one  faithful  friend  but  to  witness  thy  dying, 
In  the  arms  of  Helvellyn  and  Catchedicam. 

Sir  Waltku  Scott. 


166  BALLADS  AND  LYRLCS. 


THE   LORD   OF   BUTRAGO. 

"  Your  liorse  is  faint,  my  King  —  my  Lord!  your  gal- 
lant horse  is  sick ; 

His  limbs  are  torn,  his  breast  is  gored,  on  his  eye  the 
fihii  is  thick  ; 

Mount,  mount  on  mine,  O,  mount  apace,  I  pray  thee, 
mount  and  fly  ! 

Or  in  my  arms  I'll  lift  your  grace,  —  their  trampling 
hoofs  are  nigh! 

"My  King  —  my  King!  you're  wounded  sore,  —  the 
blood  runs  from  your  feet; 

But  only  lay  a  hand  before,  and  I'll  lift  you  to  your 
seat: 

Mount,  Juan,  for  they  gather  fast !  I  hear  their  com- 
ing cry ! 

Mount,  mount,  and  ride  for  jeopardy  !  I  '11  save  you 
though  I  die  ! 

"  Stand,  noble  steed  !  this  hour  of  need  —  be  gentle  as 

a  lamb: 
I  '11  kiss   the  foam  from  off  thy  mouth  —  thy  master 

dear  I  am ! 
Mount,  Juan,  mount!  whate'er  betide,  away  the  bridle 

fling, 
And  plunge  the  rowels   in  his  side!  —  my  horse  shall 

save  my  King! 

"Nay,   never  speak:  my   sires.  Lord   King,  received 

their  land  from  yours, 
And  joyfully  their  blood  shall  spring,  so  be  it  thine  se« 

cures: 


KUBLA  KHAN.  167 

If  I  should  fly,  and  thou,  my  King,  be   found  among 

the  dead, 
How  could  I  stand  'mong  gentlemen,  such  scoi'n  on  my 

gray  head  ? 

"  Castile's  proud  dames  shall  never  point  the  finger  of 
disdain. 

And  say.  There  's  one  that  ran  away  when  our  good 
lords  were  slain! 

I  leave  Diego  in  your  care,  —  you  '11  fill  his  father's 
place  : 

Strike,  strike  the  spur,  and  never  spare —  God's  bless- 
ing on  your  grace!  " 

So  spake  the  brave  Montanez,  Butrago's  lord  was  he; 
And   turned  him  to  the  coming  host  in  steadfastness 

and  glee; 
He  flung  himself  among  them,  as  they  came  down  the 

hill; 
He  died,  God  wot!  but  not  before  his  sword  had  drunk 

its  fill! 

J.  G.  LOCKHART. 

Spanish  Ballads. 


KUBLA  KHAN. 


In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 

A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree: 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
So  twice  iive  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round: 


I  * 


wm  tsssa 


168  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

And  there  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills, 
Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing  tree  ; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills, 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  O!  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 

Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover! 

A  savage  place!  as  holy  and  enchanted 

As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 

By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon  lover! 

And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seething, 

As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing, 

A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced : 

Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst 

Huo-e  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail. 

Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail: 

And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 

It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 

Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion 

Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran, 

Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to  man. 

And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean : 

And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 

Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war! 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 

Floated  midway  on  the  waves; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 

From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice  I 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw: 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played, 

Singinw  of  Mount  Abora. 


BERNARDO  AND  ALPEONSO.  169 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song, 

To  such  a  deep  delight  't  would  win  me 

That  with  music  loud  and  long, 
I  would  build  that  dome  in  air. 
That  sunny  dome!  those  caves  of  ice! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 
And  all  should  cry,  Beware!  Beware! 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair! 
Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice. 
And  clo^^e  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge.* 


BERNARDO  AND  ALPHONSO. 

With  some  good  ten  of  his  chosen  men,  Bernardo  hath 

appeared 
Before  them  all  in  the  palace  hall,  the  lying  King  to 

beard ; 

1  Samukl  Tayt.or  Coleridge,  son  of  Rev.  John  Coleridije, 
bom  in  1772,  was  educated  at  Christ's  Hospital,  and  afterwards 
at  Jesus  ColleR-e,  Cambridge.  He  entered  the  light  dragoons, 
but  soon  escaped  from  this  uncongenial  pursuit,  and  devoted 
In'mself  to  literature,  in  which  he  achieved  celebritj-  as  poet, 
philosopher,  and  critic.  His  fame  rests  principally  on  his  prose 
writings,  but  much  of  his  poetry  is  of  a  ver3'high  order,  particu- 
larly the  famous  Jilme  of  the  Ancient  Mariner  and  Genevieve. 
He  died  in  18;i4.  His  activity  was  impaired  and  his  career  marred 
and  broken  by  excessive  indulgence  in  opium.  The  famous 
poem  in  the  text,  a  fragment  only,  was  composed  during  sleep  pro- 
duced, probably,  by  opium. 


170  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Witli  cap  in  hand  and  eye  on  ground,  he  came  in  rev- 
erend guise, 

But  ever  and  anon  he  frowned,  and  flame  broke  from 
his  eyes. 

"  A  curse  upon  thee,"  cries  the  King,  "  who  comcst 
unbid  to  me  ; 

But  Avhat  from  traitor's  blood  should  spring,  save  trai- 
tors like  to  thee  ? 

His  sire,  lords,  had  a  traitor's  heart;  perchance  our 
champion  brave 

May  think  it  were  a  pious  part  to  share  Don  Sancho's 
grave." 

"  Whoever  told  this  tale  the  King  hath  rashness  to  re- 
peat," 

Cries  Bernard,  "here  my  gage  I  fling  before  the  liar's 
feet! 

No  treason  was  in  Sancho's  blood,  no  stain  in  mine  doth 
lie: 

Below  the  throne  what  knight  will  own  the  coward 
calumny? 

"  The  blood  that  I  like  Avater  shed,  when  Roland  did 

advance, 
By  secret  traitors  hired  and  led,  to  make  us  slaves  of 

France; 
The  life  of  King  Alphonso  I  saved  at  Roncesval,  — 
Your  words,  Lord  King,  are  recompense  abundant  for 

it  all. 

"Your  horse  was  down, — your  hope  was  flown, —  I 
saw  the  falchion  shine. 

That  soon  had  drunk  your  royal  blood,  had  I  not  vent- 
ured mine; 


BERNARDO   AND  ALPHONSO.  171 

But  memory  soon  of  service  done  deserteth  the  in- 
grate ; 

You  've  thanked  the  son  for  life  and  crown  by  the  fa- 
ther's bloody  fate. 

"  Ye  swore  upon  your  kingly  faith,  to  set  Don  Sanclio 

free ; 
But,  curse  upon  your  paltering   breath,  the  light    he 

ne'er  did  see; 
He  died  in  dungeon  cold  and  dim,  by  Alphonso's  base 

decree, 
And  visage  blind,  and  stiffened  limb,  were  all  they  gave 

to  me. 

"  The  King  that  swerveth  from  his  word  hath  stained 

his  purple  black; 
No  Spanish  lord  Avill  draw  the  sword  behind  a  liar's 

back; 
But  noble  vengeance  shall  be  mine,  an  open  hate  I  '11 

show,  — 
The  King  hath  injured  Carpio's  line,  and  Bernard  is 

his  foe." 

"  Seize,  seize  him!  "  loud  the  King  doth  scream;  "there 
are  a  thousand  here! 

Let  his  foul  blood  this  instant  stream !  What !  caitiffs, 
do  ye  fear? 

Seize,  seize  the  traitor!  "  But  not  one  to  move  a  fin- 
ger dareth; 

Bernardo  standeth  by  the  throne,  and  calm  his  sword 
he  bareth. 

He  drew  the  falchion  from  the  sheath,  and  held  it  up 

on  high, 
^nd  all  the  hall   was   still   as  death:   cries  Bernard, 

"Here  am  I,  — 


172  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

And  here  is   the  sword  that  owns  no  lord,  excepting 

Heaven  and  ine; 
Fain  would  I  know  who  dares  bis  point,  —  King,  Conde, 

or  Grandee." 

Then  to  his  mouth  the  horn  he  drew  (it  hung  below 

bis  cloak) ; 
His  ten  true  men  the  signal  knew,  and  through  the  ring 

they  broke; 
With  helm  on  bead,  and  blade  in  hand,  the  knights  the 

cii'cle  brake, 
And  back  the  lordlings  'gan  to  stand,  and   the  false 

King  to  quake. 

"Ha!  Bernard,"  quoth  Alphonso,  "  what  means  this 

warlike  guise? 
Ye  know  full  well  I  jested,  — ye  know  your  worth  I 

prize." 
But  Bernard  turned  upon  his  heel,  and  smiling  passed 

away: 
Long  rued  Alphonso  and  his  realm  the  jesting  of  that 

day. 

J.  G.  LOCKIIART. 

Spanish  Ballads. 


BERNARDO   DEL   CARPIO. 

The  warrior  bowed  his  crested  head,  and  tamed  bis 

heart  of  fire. 
And  sued  the  haughty  King  to  free  his  long-imprisoned 

sire; 


BERNARDO   DEL    CARPIO.  173 

"  I  bring  thee  here  my  fortress-keys*  I  bring  my  cap- 
tive train, 

I  pledge  thee  faith,  my  liege,  my  lord  !  O!  break  my 
father's  chain!  " 

'*  Rise,  rise!  ev'n  now  thy  father  comes,  a  ransom'd 

man  this  day; 
Mount  thy  good  horse,  and  thou  and  I  will  meet  him 

on  his  way." 
Then  lightly  rose  that  loyal  son,  and  bounded  on  his 

steed. 
And  urged,    as  if   Avith   lance    in   rest,    the   charger's 

foamy  speed. 

And  lo!    from  far,  as  on   they  press'd,  there  came  a 

glittering  band. 
With  one  that  'midst  them  stately  rode,  as  a  leader  in 

the  land; 
"  Now  haste,  Bernardo,  haste!  for  there  in  very  truth 

is  he, 
The  father  whom  thy  faithful  heart  hath  yearn 'd  so 

long  to  see." 

His  dark  eye   flash'd,    his   proud   breast   heav'd,    his 

cheek's  hue  came  and  went ; 
He  reach'd  that  gray-haired  chieftain's  side,  and  there 

dismounting  bent; 
A  lowly  knee  to  earth  he  bent,  his  father's  hand  he 

took, — 
What  was  there  in  its  touch  that  all  his  fiery  spirit 

shook  ? 

That  hand  was  cold,  a  frozen  thing,   it  dropp'd  from 

liis  like  lead  ; 
He  looked  up  to  the  face  above,  —  the  face  was  of  the 

dead! 


174  BALLADS  AND   LYRICS. 

A  plume  waved  o'er  the  noble  brow,  —  the  brow  w.as 

fixed  and  white  ; 
He  met  at  last  his  father's  eyes,  but  in  them  was  no 

sight  I 

Up  from  the  ground  he  sprang,  and  gazed;  but  who 

could  paint  that  gaze? 
They  hush'd  their  very  hearts  that  saw  its  horror  and 

amaze. 
They  might  have  chain'd  him   as   before  that    stony 

form  he  stood, 
For  the  power  was  stricken  from  his  arm,  and  from 

his  lip  the  blood. 

"  Father!  "  at  length  he  murmur'd  low,  and  wept  like 
childhood  then: 

Talk  not  of  grief  till  thou  hast  seen  the  tears  of  war- 
like men! 

He  thought  on  all  his  glorious  hopes,  and  all  his 
young  renown. 

He  flung  his  falchion  from  his  side,  and  in  the  dust  sat 
down. 

Then  covering  with  his  steel-gloved  hands  his  darkly 

mournful  brow, 
"  No  more,  there  is  no  more,"  he  said,  "to  lift  the 

sword  for  now. 
My  King  is  false,  my  hope  betray'd,   my  father  —  O! 

the  worth, 
The  glory,  and  the  loveliness   are  pass'd   away   from 

earth. 

"  I  thought  to  stand  where  banners  waved,  my  sire, 

beside  thee  yet ; 
I  would  that  there  our  kindred  blood  on  Spain's  free 

soil  had  met; 


BERNARDO    DEL    CARPIO.  I'i^ 

riiou   wouldst  have  known  my  spirit   then  :   for  thee 

my  fields  were  won, 
And  thou  hast  perish'd  in  thy  chains,  as  though  thou 

hadst  no  son  !  " 

Then  starting  from  the  ground  once  more,  he  seized 
the  monarch's  rein, 

Amidst  the  pale  and  wilder'd  looks  of  all  the  courtier- 
train  ; 

And  with  a  fierce,  o'er-mastering  grasp  the  rearing 
war-horse  led, 

And  sternly  set  them  face  to  face,  —  the  King  before 
the  dead. 

"  Came  I  not  forth  upon  thy  pledge,  my  father's  hand  i 

to  kiss?  ^ 

Be  still,   and  gaze  thou  on,  false  King  !  and  tell  me,  ;! 

what  is  this  ?  ji 

The  voice,  the  glance,  the  heart  I  sought,  —  give  an-  j, 

swer,  where  are  they? 
If    thou    wouldst   clear   thy   perjured    soul,    send   life 

throuo;h  this  cold  clay.  ^ 

"  Into  these  glassy  eyes  put  light,  —  be  still!  keep  down  * 

tliine  ire  !  — 
Bi<l    these  white  lips  a  blessing  speak  —  this  earth  is 

not  my  sire. 
Give  me  back  him  for  whom  I  strove,   for   whom  my  \ 

blood  was  shed  :  j 

Thou  canst  not?  —  and  a  king  !  —  his  <hist  \w.  moun-  i 

tains  on  thy  head  !  "  ■ 

He   loosed  the   steed,  his   slack   hand  fell  ;    u{)on  the  ; 

silent  face 

He  cast  one  long,  deep,  troubled    look,    then    turn'd  I 

from  that  sad  place.  ' 


176  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

His  hope  was  crusli'd,  liis  after-fate  untold  in  martial 

strain, 
liis  banner  led  the  spears  no  more  amidst  the  hills  of 

Spain. 

Felicia  Hemans.^ 


TO   THE   POETS. 


Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth ! 
Have  ye  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Doubled-livL'd  in  regions  new? 

Yes,  and  those  of  heaven  commune 

AVith  the  spheres  of  sun  and  moon; 

With  the  noise  of  fountains  wondrous, 

Ami  the  parle  of  voices  thund'rous; 

A\'itli  the  whisper  of  heaven's  trees 

And  one  another,  in  soft  ease 

Seated  on  Elysian  lawns, 

Browsed  by  none  but  Dian's  fawns; 

Underneath  large  blue-bells  tented, 

Where  the  daisies  are  rose-scented, 

And  the  rose  herself  has  got 

Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not; 

Where  the  nightingale  doth  sing 

Not  a  senseless,  tranced  thing, 

1  Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans,  born  in  Liverpool  in  1794, 
was  the  daughter  of  a  merchant,  and  was  married  in  1812  to 
Captain  Hemans  of  the  Fourth  Regiment,  who  not  long  after 
deserted  her  and  their  children.  Mrs.  Hemans  then  returned  to 
her  family,  and  devoted  herself  to  the  education  of  her  sons. 
She  died  in  18-35.  Such  time  as  she  could  spare  from  house- 
hold cares  was  devoted  to  literature,  and  she  published  a  num 
'jer  of  works  both  in  verse  and  in  prose. 


TO   THE  POETS.  177 

But  divine  melodious  truth  ; 
Philosophic  numbers  smooth  ; 
Tales  and  golden  histories 
Of  heaven  and  its  mysteries. 

Thus  ye  live  on  high,  and  then 
On  the  earth  ye  live  again ; 
And  the  souls  ye  left  behind  you 
Teach  us  here  the  way  to  find  you, 
Where  your  other  souls  are  joying, 
Never  slumber'd,  never  cloying. 
Here,  your  earth-born  souls  still  speak 
To  mortals,  of  their  little  week; 
Of  their  sorrows  and  delights  : 
Of  their  passions  and  their  spites; 
Of  their  glory  and  their  shame ; 
What  doth  strengthen  and  what  maim. 
Thus  ye  teach  us,  every  day, 
Wisdom,  though  fled  far  away. 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth! 
Ye  have  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new  ! 

John  Keats. ^ 


1  .John  Keats,  the  son  of  a  stable-keeper,  born  in  London 
in  1796,  was  educated  at  a  classical  school  in  Enfield,  and  in  his 
fifteenth  year  apprenticed  to  a  surgeon  at  Edmonton.  He  soon, 
however,  abandoned  medicine  for  literature.  His  first  volume 
was  treated  by  the  critics  with  crushing  severity,  which  prej'ed 
ipon  his  mind  and  injured  his  health.  After  the  publication  of 
ii  second  volume  of  poems,  which  fully  redeemed  the  promise 
\i  the  first,  lie  went  abroad  for  his  health,  and  died  at  Home 
in  1821.  Much  of  the  little  poetry  he  Wh  is  of  most  exquisite 
beauty,  and  entitles  him  to  a  high  place  among  the  group  of 
12  - 


178  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

THE   CLOUD. 


I  BRING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams; 
I  bear  light  shades  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noon-day  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  res  t  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail. 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under, 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain. 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 


I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below. 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white. 

While  1  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skiey  bowers, 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, 
„  It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits  ; 

i  Over  earth  and  ocean  with  gentle  motion 

f  This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 

\  Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

)  In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea  ; 

j-  Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills, 

.'  Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 

•  writers  who  made  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century  the 

)  most  brilliant  period  of  English  literature,  with  the  exception  of 

I  that  of  Elizabeth. 


THE   CLOUD.  179 

Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

The  spirit  he  loves  remains; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile. 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

III. 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread. 
Leaps  on  the  hack  of  my  sailing  rack, 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead. 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag, 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings. 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea  beneath, 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love. 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above. 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a  broodins  dove. 


That  orbfed  maiden,  with  white  fire  laden. 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon. 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor. 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn  ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear. 
May  have  broken  tlie  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  l)ehind  her  and  peer ; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee. 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees. 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent, 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas. 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 


180  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

V. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  the  burning  zone, 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ; 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  Avith  a  bridge-like  shape. 

Over  a  torrent  sea, 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof, 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march. 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair, 

Is  the  million-colored  bow; 
The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove, 

AVhile  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 

VI. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water. 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky  : 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores  ; 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when  with  never  a  stain 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams,  with  their  convex  gleams, 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 
I  silently  laui^h  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the  tomb, 

I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 

Percy  Bysshr  Shelley.^ 

1  Percy  Bysshe  Sheli.ey,  born  in  1792,  was  the  son  of  Sir 
Tinioth}'  Shelley,  and  of  ancient  family.  He  was  educated  at 
Eton  and  went  thence  to  Univer!<ity  College,  Oxford,  whence  he 
was  expelled  in  1811  for  publishing  a  tract  entitled  A  Defence 
tf  Atheism.     He  then  wrote  his  first  important  poem,  Queen 


PRO  P ATRIA  MORI.  181 


PRO   PATRIA  MORI. 

When  he  who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the  name 

Of  his  fault  and  his  sorrows  behind, 
O  !  say,  wilt  thou  weep,  when  they  darken  the  fame 

Of  a  life  that  for  thee  was  resigned  ? 
Yes,  weep,  and  however  my  foes  may  condemn, 

Thy  tears  shall  efface  their  decree; 
For,  Heaven  can  witness,  though  guilty  to  them, 

I  have  been  but  too  faithful  to  thee. 

With  thee  were  the  dreams  of  my  earliest  love ; 

Every  thought  of  my  reason  was  thine  : 
In  my  last  humble  prayer  to  the  Spirit  above 

Thy  name  shall  be  mingled  with  mine  ! 
O  !  blest  are  the  lovers  and  friends  who  shall  live 

The  days  of  thy  glory  to  see  ; 
But  the  next  dearest  blessing  that  Heaven  can  give 

Is  the  pride  of  thus  djing  for  thee. 

Thomas  Moore. 

Mnb,  and  not  long  aftermarried  Miss  Harriet  Westbrooke.  This 
marriage  proved  very  unhappy,  and  Shelley  and  his  wife  soon 
separated.  In  1816  Mrs.  Shelley  committed  suicide,  and  Shelley 
then  married  Mary,  the  daughter  of  the  celebrated  William  God- 
win and  his  hardly  less  celebrated  wife,  Mary  Wollstonecraft. 
This  second  marriage  was  a  happy  one.  Shelley  went  to  Italy, 
where  he  passed  the  rest  of  his  life  supported  by  an  allowance 
from  his  father,  and  where  he  was  constantly  in  the  society  of 
Lord  Byron.  In  July,  1822,  when  he  was  out  sailing,  a  squall 
came  up,  the  boat  capsized,  and  Shelley  and  his  conipanions 
were  drowned.  Ilis  writings  are  almost  wholly  in  vei-se,  and 
many  of  his  poems  arc  of  the  most  perfect  and  finished  beauty. 
His  mind,  however,  was  morbid  almost  to  the  verge  of  disease, 
»nd  this  gives  a  peculiar  tone  to  all  his  poetry. 


182  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


THE  LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high 

On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 
And  the  woods,  against  a  stormy  sky. 

Their  giant  branches  tost  ; 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came. 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums. 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame ; 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear,  — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea  ! 
And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 

To  the  anthem  of  the  free  ! 

The  ocean-eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam. 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared,  — 

This  was  their  welcome  home  I 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 
Amidst  that  pilgrim  band,  — 


EDWARD   THE   BLACK  PRINCE.       183 

Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there 
Away  from  then*  childhood's  land? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth  ; 
There  was  manhood's  brow,  serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war? 

'J'hey  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine  ! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground. 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod  ! 
They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they  found  — 

Freedom  to  worship  God  ! 

Felicia   Hemans. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  EDWARD  THE  BLACK 
PRINCE. 

O  FOR  the  voice  of  that  wild  horn, 
On  Fontarabian  echoes  borne. 

The  dying  hero's  call. 
That  told  imperial  Charlemagne, 
How  Paynim  sons  of  swarthy  Spain 

Had  wrought  his  champion's  fall. 

Sad  over  earth  and  ocean  sounding, 
And  England's  distant  cliffs  astounding, 
Such  are  the  notes  should  say 


184  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

How  Britain's  hope  and  France's  fear, 
Victor  of  Cressy  and  Poitier, 

In  Bourdeaux  dying  lay. 

"Rai?e  my  faint  head,  my  squires,"  he  said, 
"  And  let  the  casement  be  displayed, 
That  I  may  see  once  more 
The  splendor  of  the  setting  sun 
Gleam  on  thy  mirrored  wave,  Garonne, 
And  Blaye's  empurpled  shore. 

"  Like  me,  he  sinks  to  Glory's  sleep, 
His  fall  the  dews  of  evening  steep, 

As  if  in  sorrow  shed. 
So  soft  shall  fall  the  trickling  tear. 
When  England's  maids  and  matrons  hear 

Of  their  Black  Edward  dead. 

"  And  though  my  sun  of  glory  set, 
Nor  France  nor  England  shall  forget 

The  terror  of  my  name  ; 
And  oft  shall  Britain's  heroes  rise. 
New  planets  in  these  southern  skies, 

Through  clouds  of  blood  and  flame." 
Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Rob  Ri<y. 


THE   ISLES  OF   GREECE. 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece  ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung  ! 


THE  ISLES   OF   GREECE.  185 

Ett'i-nal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

The  Seian  and  the  Teian  muse, 

The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 
Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse; 

Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 
To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 
Than  your  sire's  "  Islands  of  the  Blest." 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon,  — 

And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; 
And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dream'd  that  Greece  might  still  be  free; 
For  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 
I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  King  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis; 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below. 
And  men  in  nations,  —  all  were  his! 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day,  — ■ 

And  when  the  sun  set  where  were  they  ? 

And  where  are  they  ?  and  where  art  thau. 
My  country  ?   On  thy  voiceless  shore, 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now. 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine? 

'Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  link'd  among  a  fetter'd  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame. 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face; 


186  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here  ? 

For  Greeks  a  blush,  —  for  Greece  a  tear. 

Must  tee  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest? 

Must  we  but  blush?     Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth!  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae! 

What,  silent  still?  and  silent  all? 

Ah!  no  ;  the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall. 

And  answer,  "  Let  one  living  head, 
But  one,  arise,  —  we  come,  we  come  !  " 
'T  is  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain  —  in  vain  !  strike  other  chords; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine  ! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes. 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine  I 
Hark  1  rising  to  the  ignoble  call. 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal ! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet, 
Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone  ? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one  ? 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave,  — 

Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave  ? 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  1 
We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these! 

It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine  : 

He  served — but  served  Polycrates  — 


THE  ISLES   OF   GREECE.  187 

A  tjTant;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend ; 
That  tyrant  was  Miltiades! 

O!  that  the  present  liour  would  lend 
Another  despot  of  the  kind! 
Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

On  Suli's  rock  and  Parga's  shore 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore; 
And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown, 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks,  — 
They  have  a  King  who  buys  and  sells: 

In  native  swords  and  native  ranks 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells; 

But  Turkish  force  and  Latin  fraud 

Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade; 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine; 

But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid. 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves. 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 

Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep, 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  T, 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep; 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die: 


188  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine,  — 
Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine ! 

Lord  Byron. 


HESTER. 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die, 
Their  place  ye  may  not  well  supply, 
Though  ye  among  a  thousand  try 

With  vain  endeavor. 
A  month  or  more  has  she  been  dead, 
Yet  cannot  I  by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  wormy  bed 

And  her  together. 

A  springy  motion  in  her  gait, 

A  rising  step,  did  indicate 

Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate 

That  flush'd  her  spirit: 
I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I  shall  it  call:  if  'twas  not  pride, 
It  was  a  joy  to  that  allied, 

She  did  inherit. 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule 
Which  doth  the  human  feeling  cool; 
But  she  was  train'd  in  Nature's  school, 

Nature  had  blest  her. 
A  waking  eye,  a  prying  mind, 
A  heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind; 
A  hawk's  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind, 

Ye  could  not  Hester. 


"A  widow  bird  sat  mourning  for  her  love."     See  p.  189. 


WINTER.  189 

My  sprightly  neighbor!  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore, 
Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore 

Some  summer  morning,  — 
When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day, 
A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away, 

A  sweet  fore-warning?, 

Charles   Lamb.* 


WINTER. 

A  WIDOW  bird  sate  mourning  for  her  Love 

Upon  a  wintry  bough; 
The  frozen  wind  crept  on  above, 

The  freezing  stream  below. 

There  was  no  leaf  upon  the  forest  bare, 

No  flower  upon  the  ground, 
And  little  motion  in  the  air 

Except  the  Miill-wheel's  sound. 

Pekct  Bysshe  Shelley. 

1  Charles  Lamb,  born  in  London  in  1775,  was  educated  at 
Christ's  Hospital,  and  in  1792  obtained  a  situation  in  the  East 
India  house,  wliicli  he  held  until  1825,  when  he  retired  on  a  pen- 
sion. His  life  was  devoted  to  the  guardianship  of  his  sister,  a 
woman  of  much  talent,  who  assisted  him  in  his  literary  work 
but  who  was  subject  to  fits  of  insanity.  The  hard  monotony  of 
an  accountant's  iife  was  varied  and  relieved  by  excursions  into 
various  fields  of  literature.  Tiie  best  of  Lamb's  works  are  the 
famous  Essays  of  Klia,  abounding  in  humor  and  clever  criticism 
of  character  and  manners.  Lamb  was  also  a  most  charming 
companion,  very  witty,  and  famous  as  a  story  teller.  He  died 
in  1834. 


} 

i 

!  i90  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE. 

IMy  boat  is  on  the  shore, 
And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea; 

Bnt  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 
Here  's  a  double  health  to  thee! 

Here  's  a  sigh  to  those  who  love  me, 


f  And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate: 

V  And,  whatever  sky  's  above  me, 

Here  's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 
Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on ; 

Though  a  desert  should  surround  me, 
It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

Were  't  the  last  drop  in  the  well. 
As  I  gasp'd  upon  the  brink, 
;  Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

'.  'Tis  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 

J  AVith  that  water,  as  this  wine, 

;  The  libation  I  would  pour 

ji  Should  be  —  peace  with  thine  and  mine, 

'  And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom   Moore. 

1  LoKD   Byron. 


BONNY  DUNDEE. 


BONNY  DUNDEE.i 

To  the  Lords  of    Convention,    't  was    Claver'se    who 

spoke, 
"  Ere  the  King's  crown  shall  fall  there  are  crowns  to 

be  broke  ; 
So  let  each  cavalier  who  loves  honor  and  me 
Come  follow  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my  can, 
Come  saddle  your  horses  and  call  up  your  men  ; 
Come  open  the  West  Port  and  let  me  gang  free, 
And  it  's  room  for  the  bonnets  of  Bonny  Dundee." 

1  John  Graham  of  Claverhouse,  Viscount  Dundee,  was  born 
about  the  year  1650.  He  was  distinjjuished  by  his  military  tal- 
ents and  dashing  exploits,  but  was  a  man  of  hard  and  cruel 
temper.  He  served  in  the  Dutch  army,  and  returned  to  Scot- 
land in  1677,  where  he  engaged  in  the  work  of  suppressing  the 
Covenanters.  When  .James  II.  fled,  Dundee  espoused  his  cause 
against  William  of  Orange.  He  was  in  Edinburgh,  not  having 
yet  declared  himself,  and  complained  to  the  Convention  then  sit- 
ting there,  that  he  was  in  danger  of  assassination  by  the  Cov- 
enanters. The  Dulie  of  Hamilton,  anxious  to  be  rid  of  him, 
treated  him  with  contempt.  Dundee  thereupon  left  the  Conven- 
tion in  a  rage,  and,  gathering  some  fifty  horsemen,  rode  through 
the  citv,  passing  by  tlie  Grassmarket,  where  executions  took 
place  previous  to  1784.  He  stopped  at  the  castle  and  had  a 
conference  with  the  Duke  of  Gordon,  but  could  not  persuade 
that  nobleman  to  join  him.  Meantime  the  Whig  followers  of 
Hamilton  and  Sir  .John  Dalrymple,  from  the  western  counties, 
poured  into  the  streets.  Dundee,  with  his  troopers,  leaving  the 
castle,  dashed  through  the  crowd,  got  out  of  the  city  unopposed, 
and  made  his  way  to  the  Highlands,  where  he  raised  the  clans. 
With  these  forces  he  returned  and  defeated  the  English  at  Killie- 
crankie,  where  he  fell  in  the  moment  of  victory.  This  ballad 
describes  his  departure  from  Edinburgh,  and  the  next  poem  nar- 
rates the  circumstances  of  his  victory  and  death. 


1 


192  BONNY  DUNDEE. 

Dundee  he  is-niounteil,  he  i-ides  up  the  street, 

The    bells   are    rung   backward,   the    drums   they  are 

beat ; 
But  the  Provost,    douce    man,    said,    "Just   e'en    let 

him  be. 
The  gude  town  is  weel  quit  of  that  Deil  of  Dundee." 

As  he  rode  down  the  sanctified  bends  of  the  Bow, 

Ilk  carline  was  flyting  and  shaking  her  pow  ; 

But  the  young  plants  of  grace  they  look'd  couthie  and 

slee. 
Thinking,  luck  to  thy  bonnet,  thou  Bonny  Dundee  ! 

With     sour  -  featured    Whigs     the     Grassmarket    was 

cramm'd. 
As  if  half  the  West  had  set  tryst  to  be  hang'd, 
There  was  spite  in  each  look,  there  was  fear  in  each  ee, 
As  they  watch'd  for  the  bonnets  of  Bonny  Dundee. 

These  cowls  of  Kilmarnock  had  spits  and  had  spears, 

And  lang-hafted  gullies  to  kill  Cavaliers  ; 

But  they  shrunk  to  close-heads  and  the  Causeway  was 

free. 
At  the  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 

He  spurr'd  to  the  foot  of  the  proud  Castle  rock, 

And  with  the  gay  Gordon  he  gallantly  spoke  ; 

"  Let  Mons  Meg  and  her  marrows  speak  twa  words  or 

three. 
For  the  love  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee." 

The  Gordon  demands  of  him  which  way  he  goes  — 
"  Where'er  shall  direct  me  the  shade  of  Montrose! 
Your  Grace  in  short  space  shall  hear  tidings  of  me, 
Or  that  low  lies  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 


BONNY  DUNDEE.  192a  1 

"  There  are  hills  beyond  Pentland  and  lands  beyond  I 

Forth,  j 

If  there  's  Lords  in  the  Lowlands,  there  's  Chiefs  in  the  < 

North ;  [ 

There  are  wild  Duniewassals  three  thousand  times  three,  f 

Will  cry  holffh!  for  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 

"  There  's  brass  on  the  target  of  barken'd  bull-hide, 
There  's  steel  in  the  scabbard  that  dangles  beside; 
Tlie  brass  shall  be  burnished,  the  steel  shall  flash  free 
At  a  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 

"  Away  to  the  hills,  to  the  caves,  to  the  rocks  — 
Ere  I  own  an  usurper,  I  '11  couch  with  the  fox  ; 
And  tremble,  false  Whigs,  in  the  midst  of  your  glee, 
You  have  not  seen  the  last  of  my  bonnet  and  me." 

He   waved   his   proud   hand,   and   the   trumpets  were 

blown. 
The  kettle-drums  clash'd,  and  the  horsemen  rode  on, 
Till  on  Ravelston's  cliffs  and  on  Clermiston's  lee, 
Died  away  the  wild  war  notes  of  Bonny  Dundee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my  can, 
Come  saddle  the  horses  and  call  up  the  men, 
Come  open  your  gates,  and  let  me  gae  free, 
For  it  's  up  with  the  bonnets  of  Bonny  Dundee. 
Sir  Waltp:r  Scott, 

The  Doom  of  DevorgoU. 


192^  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

THE  BURIAL-MARCH    OF   DUNDEE. 


Sound  the  fife,  and  cry  the  slogan; 

Let  the  {)ibrocli  shake  the  air 
With  its  wild  triumphal  music, 

Worthy  of  the  freight  we  bear. 
Let  the  ancient  hills  of  Scotland 

Hear  once  more  the  battle-song 
Swell  within  their  glens  and  valleys 

As  the  clansmen  march  along! 
Never  from  the  field  of  combat, 

Never  from  the  deadly  fray, 
Was  a  nobler  trophy  carried 

Than  we  bring  with  us  to-day ; 
Never,  since  the  valiant  Douglas 

On  his  dauntless  bosom  bore 
Good  King  Robert's  heart  —  the  priceless  — 

To  our  dear  Redeemer's  shore! 

1  After  leaving  Edinburgh,  Dundee  betook  himself  to  his  own 
house,  and  thence  to  the  mountains.  The  clans  flocked  to  his 
standard,  and  General  Mackay,  commanding  the  forces  of  the 
Prince  of  Orange  and  of  the  Convention,  advanced  against  him. 
The  armies  met  just  outside  the  dangerous  pass  of  Killiecrankie. 
When  the  word  \vas  given  to  advance,  the  clans  rushed  forward 
witli  headlong  impetuosity.  They  received  the  fire  of  the  reg- 
ular troops  without  tlinciiing,  poured  in  a  volley,  threw  away 
tiieir  muskets,  and  fell  upon  the  English  forces  with  their  broad- 
swords. Their  victory  was  immediate,  and  the  English  gave 
way  in  utter  confusion.  Dundee  was  separated  in  some  way 
from  his  cavalry,  and  was  last  seen  standing  up  in  his  stirrups 
waving  his  sword,  and  with  about  sixteen  gentlemen  following 
him,  disappeared  in  the  smoke,  leading  the  clans.  When  tlie 
Highlanders  I'eturned  from  the  pursuit,  they  found  him  lying 
on  the  lield,  fatalh^  wounded.  The  death  of  Dundee  was  the 
downfall  of  all  the  hopes  of  James  II.  in  Scotland. 


THE  BURIAL-MARCH   OF  DUNDEE.     193 

Lo!  we  bring  with  us  the  hero  ; 

Lo!  we  bring  the  conquering  Graeme, 
Crowned  as  best  beseems  a  victor 

From  the  altar  of  his  fame; 
Fresh  and  bleeding  from  the  battle 

Whence  his  spirit  took  its  flight, 
Midst  the  crashing  charge  of  squadrons, 

And  the  thunder  of  the  fight ! 
Strike,  I  say,  the  notes  of  triumph. 

As  we  march  o'er  moor  and  lea ! 
Is  there  any  here  will  venture 

To  bewail  our  dead  Dundee  ? 
Let  the  widows  of  the  traitors 

Weep  until  their  eyes  are  dim  ! 
Wail  ye  may  full  well  for  Scotland,  — 

Let  none  dare  to  mourn  for  him! 
See  !  above  his  glorious  body 

Lies  the  royal  banner's  fold  ; 
See  1  his  valiant  blood  is  mingled 

With  its  crimson  and  its  gold  ; 
See  how  calm  he  looks,  and  stately, 

Like  a  warrior  on  his  shield, 
Waiting  till  the  flush  of  morning 

Breaks  along  the  battle-field! 
See  —  O  never  more,  my  comrades, 

Shall  we  see  that  falcon  eye 
Redden  with  its  inward  lightning, 

As  the  hour  of  fight  drew  nigh! 
Never  shall  we  hear  the  voice  that, 

Clearer  than  the  trumpet's  call, 
Bade  us  strike  for  King  and  country, 

Bade  us  win  the  field,  or  fall! 
13 


194  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

II. 
On  the  heights  of  Killiecrankie 

Yester-morn  our  army  lay  : 
Slowly  rose  the  mist  in  columns 

From  the  river's  broken  way; 
Hoarsely  roared  the  swollen  torrent, 

And  the  pass  was  wrapt  in  gloom, 
When  the  clansmen  rose  together 

From  their  lair  amidst  the  broom. 
Then  we  belted  on  our  tartans, 

And  our  bonnets  down  we  drew, 
And  we  felt  our  broadswords'  edges. 

And  Ave  proved  them  to  be  true  ; 
And  we  prayed  the  prayer  of  soldiers, 

And  we  cried  the  gathering-cry, 
And  we  clasped  the  hands  of  kinsmen 

And  we  swore  to  do  or  die! 
Then  our  leader  rose  before  us 

On  his  war-horse  black  as  night,  — 
Well  the  Cameronian  rebels 

Knew  that  charger  in  the  fight!  — 
And  a  cry  of  exultation 

From  the  bearded  warriors  rose; 
For  we  loved  the  house  of  Claver'se, 

And  we  thought  of  good  Montrose. 
But  he  raised  his  hand  for  silence  : 

"  Soldiers!  I  have  sworn  a  vow  : 
Ere  the  evening  star  shall  glisten 

On  Schehallion's  lofty  brow, 
Either  we  shall  rest  in  triumph. 

Or  another  of  the  Graemes 
Shall  have  died  in  battle-harness 

For  his  country  and  King  James! 
Think  upon  the  Royal  Martyr  — 

Think  of  what  his  race  endure  — 


THE  BURIAL-MARCH  OF  DUNDEE.     195 

Think  of  him  whom  butchers  murdered 

On  the  field  of  Magus  Muir: 
By  his  sacred  blood  I  charge  ye, 

By  the  ruined  hearth  and  shrine, 
By  the  blighted  hopes  of  Scotland, 

By  your  injuries  and  mine, 
Strike  this  day  as  if  the  anvil 

Lay  beneath  your  blows  the  while, 
Be  they  covenanting  traitors. 

Or  the  brood  of  false  Argyle  ! 
Strike  !  and  drive  the  trembling  rebels 

Backwards  o'er  the  stormy  Forth  ; 
Let  them  tell  their  pale  Convention 

How  they  fared  within  the  North. 
Let  them  tell  that  Highland  honor 

Is  not  to  be  bought  nor  sold. 
That  we  s(!orn  their  prince's  anger 

As  we  loathe  his  foreign  gold. 
Strike  !  and  when  the  fight  is  over, 

If  ye  look  in  vain  for  me. 
Where  the  dead  are  lying  thickest, 

Search  for  him  that  was  Dundee  !  " 

III. 

Loudly  then  the  hills  reechoed 

With  our  ansAver  to  his  call, 
But  a  deeper  echo  sounded 

In  the  bosoms  of  us  all. 
For  the  lands  of  wild  Breadalbane, 

Not  a  man  who  heard  him  speak 
Would  that  day  have  left  the  battle. 

Burning  eye  and  flushing  cheek 
Told  the  clansmen's  fierce  emotion, 

And  they  harder  drew  their  breath  ; 
For  their  souls  were  strong  within  tlieiu, 


196  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Stronger  than  the  grasp  of  death. 
Soon  we  heard  a  challenge- trumpet 

Sounding  in  the  pass  below, 
And  the  distant  tramp  of  horses, 

And  the  voices  of  the  foe : 
Down  we  crouched  amid  the  bracken, 

Till  the  Lowland  ranks  drew  near, 
Panting  like  the  hounds  in  summer. 

When  they  scent  the  stately  deer. 
From  the  dark  defile  emerging, 

Next  we  saw  the  squadrons  come, 
Leslie's  foot  and  Leven's  troopers 

Marching  to  the  tuck  of  drum  ; 
Through  the  scattered  wood  of  birches, 

O'er  the  broken  ground  and  heath, 
AVound  the  long  battalion  slowly, 

Till  they  gained  the  plain  beneath  ; 
Then  we  bounded  from  our  covert. 

Judge  how  looked  the  Saxons  then, 
When  they  saw  the  rugged  mountain 

Start  to  life  with  armfed  men  ! 
Like  a  tempest  down  the  ridges 

Swept  the  hurricane  of  steel. 
Rose  the  slogan  of  Macdonald, 

Flashed  the  bi'oad sword  of  Lochiell  ! 
Vainly  sped  the  withering  volley 

'Mongst  the  foremost  of  our  band ; 
On  we  poured  until  we  met  them. 

Foot  to  foot,  and  hand  to  hand. 
Horse  and  man  went  down  like  drift-wood 

When  the  floods  are  black  at  Yule, 
And  their  carcasses  are  whirling 

In  the  Garry's  deepest  pool. 
Horse  and  man  went  down  before  us,  — 

Living:  foe  there  tarried  none 


THE  BURIAL-MARCH  OF  DUNDEE.     197 

On  the  field  of  Killiecrankie, 

When  that  stubborn  fight  was  done  1 


!And  the  evening  star  was  shining 
On  Schehallion's  distant  head, 
When  we  wiped  our  bloody  broadswords, 
I  And  returned  to  count  the  dead. 

There  we  found  him  gashed  and  gory, 
Stretched  upon  the  cumbered  plain, 
';  As  he  told  us  where  to  seek  him, 

In  the  thickest  of  the  slain. 
And  a  smile  was  on  his  visage, 
.;'  For  within  his  dying  ear 

;  Pealed  the  joyful  note  of  triumph, 

§  And  the  clansmen's  clamorous  cheer  : 

*  So,  amidst  the  battle's  thunder, 

i  Shot,  and  steel,  and  scorching  flame, 

5  In  the  glory  of  his  manhood 

\  Passed  the  sj)irit  of  the  Graeme  I 


Open  wide  the  vaults  of  AthoU, 

Where  the  bones  of  heroes  rest ; 
Open  wide  the  hallowed  portals 

To  receive  another  guest  I 
Last  of  Scots,  and  last  of  freemen. 

Last  of  all  that  dauntless  race 
Who  would  rather  die  unsullied 

Than  outlive  the  land's  disgrace! 
O  thou  lion-hearted  warrior! 

Reck  not  of  thu  after- time: 
Honor  may  be  deemed  dishonor, 

Loyalty  be  called  a  crime. 
Sleep  in  peace  with  kindred  ashes 


198  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Of  tlie  noble  and  the  true, 
Hands  that  never  failed  tbeir  country, 

Hearts  that  never  baseness  knew. 
Sleep!  —  and  till  the  latest  trumpet 

Wakes  the  dead  from  earth  and  sea, 
Scotland  shall  not  boast  a  braver 

Chieftain  than  our  own  Dundee! 
William  Edmondstoune  Aytoun. 


PAST  AND   PRESENT. 

I  REMEMBER,  I  remember 

The  house  where  I  was  born. 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 

Came  peeping  in  at  morn; 
He  never  c:une  a  wink  too  soon, 

Nor  brought  too  long  a  day ; 
But  now,  I  often  wish  the  night 

Had  borne  my  breath  away. 

I  remember,  I  remember 
The  roses,  red  and  white, 

The  violets,  and  the  lily-cups  — 
Those  flowers  made  of  light! 


1  William  Edmondstoune  Aytoun,  born  in  1813,  was  a 
member  of  the  Edinburgh  bar.  He  became  professor  of  liter- 
ature and  belles-lettres  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  and 
editor  of  Blackwood's  Magazine.  Besides  his  fine  Lays  of  the 
Scottish  Cavaliers,  from  which  the  two  poems  given  in  this  col- 
lection are  taken,  he  wrote  a  number  of  clever  parodies  under 
the  name  of  "Bon  Gaultier."  He  has  also  written  on  history 
and  literature.     He  died  in  1865. 


t- 


PAST  AND  PRESENT.  199 

The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 

And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birthday, — 

The  tree  is  living  yet  ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing, 
And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing; 
My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 
And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow. 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  fir  trees  dark  and  high; 
I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  against  the  sky: 
It  was  a  childish  ignorance. 

But  now  'tis  little  joy 
To  know  I  'm  farther  off  from  Heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 

Thomas  Hood.*  'j 

1  Thomas  Hood,  the  famous  humorist,  was  born  in  1798. 
He  was  placed  at  an  early  age  in  a  merchant's  counting-house, 
but  soon  abandoned  it  for  literature.     He  wrote  for  and  edited  i 

magazines,  and  was  an  early  contributor  to  Punch.  His  life 
was  a  hard  struggle  with  poverty  and  ill-health.  He  wrote 
much  both  in  verse  and  in  prose.  His  writings  are  chiefly  hu- 
morous, but  he  had  a  strong  pathetic  vein,  and  some  of  his  seri- 
ous poems  have  attained  an  almost  unbounded  popularit}'.  He 
iied  in  1845. 


200  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


THE   LOST   LEADER. 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us, 

Just  for  a  riband  to  stick  in  his  coat,  — 
Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft  us, 

Lost  all  the  others  she  let.s  us  devote; 
They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled  liiui  out  silver, 

So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allowed: 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  service! 

Rags  —  were  they  purple,  his  heart  had  been  proud . 
We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him,  honored  him, 

Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye. 
Learned  his  great  language,  caught  his  clear  accents, 

Made  hiui  our  pattern  to  live  and  to  die! 
Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 

Burns,    Shelley,   were  with  us,  —  they   watch    from 
their  graves! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  freemen, 

He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves! 

We  shall  march  prospering,  —  not  thro'  his  presence; 

Songs  may  inspirit  us,  —  not  from  his  lyre; 
Deeds  will  be  done,  — while  he  boasts  his  quiescence, 

Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest  bade  aspire: 
Blot  out  his  name,  then,  record  one  lost  soul  more. 

One  task  more  declined,  one  more  footpath  untrod, 
One  more  devils'-triumph  and  sorrow  for  angels. 

One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult  to  God! 
Life's  night  begins!  let  him  never  come  back  to  us! 

There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation,  and  pain, 
Forced  praise  on  our  part,  —  the  glimmer  of  twilight. 

Never  glad,  confident  morning  again! 
Best  fight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him,  —  strike  gallantly, 

Menace  our  heart  ere  we  ninster  his  own; 


HOME-THOUGHTS,  FROM   THE   SEA.    201 

Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge,  and  wait  us, 
Pardoned  in  heaven,  the  first  by  the  throne! 

Robert  Browning.* 


HOME-THOUGHTS,   FROM  THE   SEA. 

Nobly,    nobly   Cape  Saint  Vincent  to  the  northwest 

died  away  ; 
Sunset  ran,  one  glorious  blood-red,  reeking  into  Cadiz 

Bay ; 
Bluish  'mid  the  burning  water,  full  in  face  Trafalgar 

lay; 

In  the  dimmest  northeast  distance  dawned  Gibraltar, 

grand  and  gray ; 
"  Here  and  here  did  England  help  me  :  how  can  I  help 

England?  "  say, 
Whoso  turns  as  T,  this  evening,  turn  to  God  to  praise 

and  pray, 
While  Jove's  planet  rises  yonder,  silent  over  Africa. 

Robert  Browning. 

1  KoBKKT  Bbowxing,  with  the  exception  of  Tennyson  the 
most  famous  of  living  English  poets,  was  born  in  Camberwell, 
near  London,  in  1812  He  was  educated  at  the  University'  of 
London,  and  published  his  first  important  poem,  Paracelsus,  in 
1835.  In  184(J  he  married  the  poetess  Eiizabetli  Barrett.  This 
poem  of  The  Lost  Leader  refers  to  William  WordsAvorth,  who 
changed  his  politics  from  tlie  Liberal  to  the  Tory  side. 


202  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


OLD   IRONSlDES.i 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down  1 

Long  has  it  waved  on  higli, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar; 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more! 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread. 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee,  — 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea! 

O  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 
Should  sink  beneath  the  wave  ; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 
f        And  there  should  be  her  grave; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail. 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 
The  lightning  and  the  gale. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.'^ 

1  The  famous  American  ship  of  war,  the  Constitution,  was 
called  Old  Ironsides  in  allusion  to  her  victories  over  the  English 
iu  the  war  of  1812,  and  this  poem  was  called  forth  by  a  proposal 
which  was  made  to  break  her  up  and  sell  the  iron  and  timber. 

2  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  son  of  the  Rev.  Abiel  Holmes, 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS.    203 


THE   WRECK   OF   THE   HESPERUS. 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 

That  sailed  the  wintry  sea, 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter, 

To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy-flax, 

Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 
And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds, 

That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm. 

His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth. 
And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 

The  smoke  now  west,  now  south. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  sailor. 
Had  sailed  to  the  Spanish  Main, 
"  I  pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port, 
For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 

"  Last  nijiht  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 
And  to-niijht  no  moon  we  see  !  "  ^ 

The  skipper,  he  blew  a  whiff  from  his  pipe, 
And  a  scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 

was  born  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  in  1809,  and  graduated  at  Harvard 
College  in  1829.  He  studied  medicine  in  Europe,  returned  to 
the  United  States,  and  accepted  the  professorship  of  anatomy 
in  Dartmouth  College  in  18-38.  In  1847  he  became  professor  of 
anatomy  in  the  Harvard  Medical  School,  a  position  he  still 
holds,  and  has,  since  his  acceptance  of  tliat  post,  lived  in  Bos- 
ton. His  name,  one  of  the  most  distinguislu'd  in  our  literature, 
is  familiar  to  all  Americans  as  that  of  a  poet,  critic,  novelist, 
and  humorist. 


— *5" 


204  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A  gale  from  the  northeast  ; 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain 

The  vessel  in  its  strength; 
She  shnddered  and  paused,  like  a  frighted  steed, 

Then  leaped  her  cable's  length. 

"  Come  hither!  come  hither  !  my  little  daughter, 
And  do  not  tremble  so; 
For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale 
That  ever  wind  did  blow." 

He  wrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast ; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar, 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

"  O  father  !  I  hear  the  church-bells  ring, 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
"  'T  is  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast!  "  — 

And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea. 

"  O  father  1  I  hear  the  sound  of  guns, 

O  say,  what  may  it  be?  " 
"  Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 

In  such  an  angry  sea!  " 

"  O  father!  I  see  a  gleaming  light, 
O  say,  what  ma}'  it  be  ?  " 
But  the  father  answered  never  a  word, 
A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPEUVS.     205. 

Lashed  to  the  hehn,  all  stiff  and  stark, 

With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies, 
The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming  snow 

On  hi?  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and  prayed 

That  savfed  she  might  be; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled  the  wave, 

On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drear, 
Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 

Like  a  sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 
Tow'rds  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 

A  sound  came  from  the  land; 
It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf 

On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows, 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck, 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 

Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 


She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 

Looked  soft  as  carded  avooI, 
But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  side 

Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice, 
With  the  masts  went  by  the  board; 

Like  a  vessel  of  glass,  slie  stove  and  sank, 
Ho!  ho!  the  breakers  roared! 


206  BALLADS  AND   LYRICS. 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair, 

Lashed  close  to  a  drifting  mast. 

ITie  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes  ; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea-weed, 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow  I 
Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this. 

On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow.* 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR. 

"  Speak!  speak!  thou  fearful  guest! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest, 
Comest  to  daunt  me! 

1  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  son  of  the  Hon. 
Stephen  Longfellow,  was  born  in  Portland,  Maine,  in  1807,  and 
graduated  at  Bowdoin  College  in  1825.  He  studied  law  for  a 
short  time  and  was  soon  after  appointed  professor  of  modern 
languages  at  Bowdoin.  He  then  travelled  abroad  for  three 
years,  returning  in  1829.  Li  18-35  he  was  appointed  professor 
of  belles-lettres  at  Harvard  College,  a  position  which  he  re- 
signed in  1854.  On  his  appointment  he  came  to  Cambridge, 
where  he  passed  the  rest  of  his  life,  and  where  he  died  March 
24,  1882.  He  is  deservedly  among  the  best  known  and  most 
popular  of  modern  poets,  both  in  England  and  in  this  country, 
and  the  selections  in  this  volume  arc  abundant  evidence  of  the 
skill,  grace,  and  artistic  form  of  his  narrative  poems. 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR.  207 

Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  tliy  flesliless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me?  " 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise. 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December; 
And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber. 

•'  I  was  a  Viking  old! 
My  deeds,  though  manifold, 
No  Skald  in  song  has  told. 

No  Saga  taught  thee! 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale,  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse ; 

For  this  I  sought  thee. 

♦'  Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand. 
Tamed  the  gerfalcon; 
And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 
Trembled  to  walk  on. 

•  Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grisly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 


20B  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Fled  like  a  shadow; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf's  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow. 

*'  But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew, 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  Avas  the  life  we  led; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 
By  our  stern  orders. 

"Many  a  wassail-bout 

Wore  the  long  winter  out  ; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 

Set  the  cocks  crowing. 
As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 
Draining  the  oaken  pail, 

Filled  to  o'erflowing. 

"  Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me. 
Burning  yet  tender; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine. 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 
Fell  their  soft  splendor. 

"  I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR.  20y 

And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast, 
Like  birds  within  their  nest 

^y  the  hawk  frighted. 

"  Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chanting  his  glory; 

When  of  old  Hildebrand 

I  asked  his  daughter's  hand, 

Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 

To  hear  my  story. 

**  While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed, 
And  as  the  wind  gusts  waft 
The  sea-foam  brightly, 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 
Blew  the  foam  lightly. 

**  She  was  a  Prince's  child, 
I  but  a  Viking  wild, 
And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded ! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 
Her  nest  unguarded? 
14 


210  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

"  Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me, 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen  ! 
When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armfed  hand, 
Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

"  Then -launched  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast. 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast. 

When  the  wind  failed  us  ; 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 

Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 

"  And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veered  the  flapping  sail, 
Death  !  was  the  helmsman's  hail, 

Death  without  quarter  I 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel  ; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water  ! 

'•'  As  with  his  wings  aslant. 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden, 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 


'asr-'  ,'"  .laMB 


In  the  vast  forest  here, 

Clad  in  mv  warlike  gear."'     See  p.  211. 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR.  211 

Through  the  wild  hurricane, 
Bore  I  the  maiden. 

♦'  Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
Cloudlike  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  lee-ward  ; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 
Which,  to  this  very  hour. 

Stands  looking  sea-ward. 

"  There  lived  we  many  years  ; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears  ; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears. 

She  was  a  mother  ; 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes. 
Under  that  tower  she  lies  ; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 

On  such  another  ! 

*'  Still  grew  my  bosom  then. 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen  ! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men. 

The  sun-light  hateful  ! 
In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 

O,  death  was  grateful! 

*'  Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars, 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended  ! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 


212  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul, 
SLoal.'  to  tlie  Northland  !  skoal!  " 
Thus  the  tale  ended. ^ 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE   ARMADA. 

A    FRAGMENT. 


Attend,  all  ye  who  list  to  hear  our  noble  England's 
praise  ; 

I  tell  of  the  thrice  famous  deeds  she  wrought  in  an- 
cient days, 

When  that  great  fleet  invincible  against  her  bore  in 
vain 

The  richest  spoils  of  Mexico,  the  stoutest  hearts  of  Spain. 

It  was  about  the  lovely  close  of  a  warm  summer  day, 

There  came  a  gallant  merchant-ship  full  sail  to  Plym- 
outh Bay  ; 

Her  crew  hath  seen  Castile's  black  fleet,  beyond  Au- 
rigny's  isle, 

At  earliest  twilight,  on  the  waves  lie  heaving  many  a 
mile. 

At  sunrise  she  escaped  their  van,  by  God's  especial 
grace  ; 

1  This  fine  poem  was  suggested  by  the  discovery  in  a  sand- 
bank, near  Fall  River,  Mass.,  of  a  skeleton  with  some  remains 
of  armor  clinging  to  it.  The  early  visits  of  the  Norsemen  to 
New  England  gave  support  to  the  theorj'  that  this  was  one  of 
that  race.  It  is  more  probable,  however,  that  the  skeleton  was 
that  of  an  Indian  of  the  tribes  which  were  found  in  Central 
America,  as  the  armor  corresponded  to  that  worn  by  the  aborig- 
inal inhabitants  of  those  retjions. 


THE  ARMADA.  213 

And  the  tall  Pinta,  till  the  noon,  had  held  her  close  in 

chase. 
Forthwith  a  guard  at  every  gun  was  placed  along  the 

wall ; 
The  beacon  blazed  upon  the  roof  of  Edgecumbe's  lofty- 
hall  ; 
Many  a  light   fishing-bark   put  out  to  pry  along  the 

coast, 
And  with  loose  rein  and  bloody  spur  rode  inland  many 

a  post. 
With  his  white  hair  unbonneted,  the  stout  old  sheriff 

comes  ; 
Behind  him  march  the  halberdiers  ;  before  him  sound 

the  drums  ; 
His  yeomen  round    the   market  cross   make   clear  an 

ample  space  ; 
For  there  behoves  him  to  set  up  the  standard  of  Her 

Grace. 
And  haughtily  the  trumpets  peal,  and  gayly  dance  the 

bells. 
As  slow  upon  the  laboring  wind  the  royal  blazon  swells. 
Look  how  the  Lion  of  the  sea  lifts  up  his  ancient  crown, 
And  underneath  his  deadly  paw  treads  the  gay  lilies 

down. 
So  stalked  he  when  he  turned  to  flight,  on  that  famed 

Picard  field, 
Bohemia's  plume,  and  Genoa's  bow,  and  Caesar's  eagle 

shield. 
So  glared  he  when  at  Agincourt  in  wrath  he  turneil  to 

bay, 
And  crushed  and  torn  beneath  his  claws  the  princely 

hunters  lay. 
Ho  !  strike  the  flagstaff  deep,  Sir  Knight;  ho  !  scatter 

flowers,  f.iir  maids  ; 
Ho  !  gunners,   fire  a  luud  salute  ;   ho  I  gallants,  draw 

your  blades ; 


214  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Thou  sun,  shine  on    her   joyously  ;   ye  breezes,  waft 

her  wide,  — 
Our  glorious  Semper  Eadem,  the  banner  of  our  pride. 
The  freshening  breeze  of  eve  unfurled  that  banner's 

massive  fold  ; 
The  parting  gleam   of  sunshine   kissed  that   haughty 

scroll  of  gold  ; 
Night  sank  upon  the  dusky  beach,  and  on  the  purple 

sea, 
Such  night  in  England  ne'er  had  been,  nor  e'er  again 

shall  be. 
Fi-om   Eddystone  to  Berwick  bounds,   from   Lynn  to 

Milford  Bay, 
That  time  of  slumber  was  as  bright  and  busy  as  the 

day  ; 
For  swift  to  east  and  swift  to  west  the  ghastly  war- 
flame  spread. 
High  on   St.   Michael's  Mount  it  shone  :    it    shone  on 

Beachy  Head. 
Far  on  the  deep  the  Spaniard  saw,  along  each  southern 

shire. 
Cape  beyond  cape,  in  endless  range,  those  twinkling 

points  of  fire. 
The  fisher  left  his  skiff  to  rock  on  Tamar's  glittering 

waves  : 
The  rugged  miners  poured  to  war  from  Mendip's  sun- 
less caves : 
O'er   Longleat's   towers,  o'er   Cranbourne's  oaks,   the 

fiery  herald  flew : 
He  roused  the  shepherds  of  Stonehenge,  the  rangers 

of  Beaulieu. 
Right  sharp  and  quick  the  bells  all  night  rang  out  from 

Bristol  town, 
And  ere  the  day  three  hundred  horse  had  met  on  Clif 

ton  down  ; 


THE  ARMADA.  215 

The  sentinel  on  Whitehall  gate  looked  forth  into  the 
night, 

And  saw  o'erhanging  Eichmond  Hill  the  streak  of 
blood-red  light. 

Then  bugle's  note  and  cannon's  roar  the  death-like  si- 
lence broke, 

And  with  one  start,  and  with  one  cry,  the  royal  city 
woke. 

At  once  on  all  her  stately  gates  arose  the  answering 
fires  ; 

At  once  the  wild  alarum  clashed  from  all  her  reeling 
spires; 

Fi'om  all  the  batteries  of  the  Tower  pealed  loud  the 
voice  of  fear ; 

And  all  the  thousand  masts  of  Thames  sent  back  a 
louder  cheer  : 

And  from  the  furthest  wards  was  heard  the  rush  of 
hurrying  feet. 

And  the  broad  streams  of  pikes  and  flags  rushed  down 
each  roaring  street  ; 

And  broader  still  became  the  blaze,  and  louder  still  the 
din, 

As  fast  from  every  village  round  the  horse  came  spur- 
ring in  ; 

And  eastward  straight  from  wild  Blackheath  the  war- 
like errand  went, 

And  roused  in  many  an  ancient  hall  the  gallant  squires 
of  Kent. 

Southward  from  Surrey's  pleasant  hills  flew  those  bright 
couriers  forth; 

High  on  bleak  Hampstead's  swarthy  moor  they  started 
for  the  north ; 

And  on,  and  on,  without  a  pause  untired  they  bounded 
still: 

All  night  from  tower  tc  tower  they  sprang  ;  they  sprang 
from  hill  to  hill  : 


216  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Till  the  j)roud   peak  unfurled  the  flag  o'er  Darwin's 
rocky  dales, 

Till  like  volcanoes  flared  to  heaven  the  stormy  hills  of 
Wales, 

Till  twelve  fair  counties  saw  the  blaze  on  Malvern's 
lonely  height. 

Till   streamed  in   crimson  on  the  wind   the  Wrekin's 
crest  of  liglit, 

Till   broad    and   fierce  the   star  came   forth  on   Ely's 
stately  fane, 

And  tower  and  hamlet  rose  in  arms  o'er  all  the  bound- 
less plain ; 

Till  Belvoir's  lordly  terraces  the  sign  to  Lincoln  sent, 

And  Lincoln  sped  the  message  on  o'er  the  wide  vale  of 
Ti-ent  ; 

Till  Skiddavv  saw  the  fire  that  burnt  on  Gaunt's  em- 
battled pile, 

And  the  red  glai'e  on  Skiddaw  roused  the  burghers  of 
Carlisle. 

Lord  Macaulay.^ 

1  Thomas  Babington  Macaulay,  born  in  1800,  was  a  son 
of  Zachaiy  Macaulay,  an  eminent  philanthropist.  He  was  ed- 
ucated at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  and  in  boyhood  and 
youth  gave  ample  pvoniise  of  his  extraordinaiy  mental  powers. 
In  1825  he  published  liis  essay  on  Milton,  which  at  once  made 
him  famous,  and  in  1820  he  was  called  to  the  bar.  He  entered 
Parliament  as  a  Whig  in  1830,  and  rose  rapidl}'  in  politics  by 
his  strong  intellect  and  great  oratorical  powers.  In  1834  he  was 
sent  to  India  as  one  of  the  Supreme  Council,  and  on  his  return 
was  elected  to  Parliament  from  Edinburgh,  in  1810.  In  1846, 
when  the  Whig  party  returned  to  power,  he  was  made  Pay- 
master General  of  the  Forces,  with  a  seat  in  the  cabinet.  He 
was  defeated  for  Parliament  in  1847,  but  again  elected  from 
Edinburgh  in  1852,  resigning  his  seat  in  1856,  in  order  to  devote 
himself  to  literature.  In  1857  he  was  raised  to  the  peerage  as 
Baron  Macaulay  of  Rothlej'.  He  died  in  1859.  He  was  emi- 
leiit  both  as  a  statesuiaii  and  as  a  writer.     His  poems  were  few 


SIR  NICHOLAS  AT  MARSTON  MOOR.    217 


SIR  NICHOLAS   AT   MARSTON  MOOR.i 

To  horse,  to  horse,  Sir  Nicholas  !  the  clarion's  note  is 
high  ; 

To  horse,  to  horse,  Sir  Nicholas  !  the  huge  drum  makes 
reply  : 

Ere  this  hath  Lucas  marched  -with  his  gallant  cavaliers. 

And  the  bray  of  Rupert's  trumpets  grows  fainter  on 
our  ears. 

To  horse,  to  horse,  Sir  Nicholas !  White  Guy  is  at  the 
door, 

And  the  vulture  whets  his  beak  o'er  the  field  of  Mars- 
ton  Moor. 

Up  rose  the  Lady  Alice   from  her  brief  and  broken 

prayer, 
And  she  brought  a  silken  standard  down  the  narrow 

turret  stair. 
O,  many  were   the  tears  that  those  radiant  eyes   had 

shed. 
As  she  worked  the  bright  word  "  Glory  "  in  the  gay 

and  glancing  thread; 
And  mournful  was  the  smile  that  o'er  those  beauteous 

features  ran. 
As  she  said,  "It  is  your  lady's  gift,  unfurl  it  in  the 

van." 

in  number,  and  although  not  the  highest  kind,  have  very  great 
merit  combined  with  force  of  expression  and  thought.  His 
famo  rests  on  his  essays  and  his  history  of  England. 

1  The  battle  of  Marston  Moor  was  fought  July  2,  1644,  be- 
tween the  Scotch  and  Parliamentary  forces  and  those  of  King 
Charles.  The  battle  was  doubtful  for  a  time,  but  was  finally  de- 
cided by  the  attack  of  Cromwell,  and  the  Royalists  were  utterly 
routed. 


218  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

"It  shall  flutter,   noble  wench,  where  the  best  and 

boldest  ride, 
Through  the  steel-clad  files  of  Skippon  and  the  black 

dragoons  of  Pride  ; 
The  recreant  soul  of  Fairfax  will  feel  a  sicklier  qualm, 
And  the  rebel  lips  of  Oliver  give  out  a  louder  psalm, 
When  they  see  my  lady's  gew-gaw  flaunt  bravely  on 

their  wing, 
And  hear  her  loyal  soldiers'  shout,  for  God  and  for  the 

King ! " 

'T  is  noon;  the  ranks  are  broken  along  the  royal  line; 
They  fly,  the  braggarts  of  the  court,  the  bullies  of  the 

Rhine: 
Stout  Langley's  cheer  is  heard  no  more,  and  Astley's 

helm  is  down, 
And  Rupert  sheaths  his  rapier  with  a  curse  and  with  a 

frown ; 
And   cold    Newcastle   mutters,  as  he   follows   in   the 

flight, 
"  The  German   boar  had  better  far  have  supped  in 

York  to-night." 

The  Knight  is  all  alone,  his  steel  cap  cleft  in  twain, 
His  good  buff  jerkin  crimsoned  o'er  with  many  a  gory 

stain; 
But  still  he  waves  the  standard,  and  cries  amid   the 

rout : 
"  For  Church  and  King,  fair  gentlemen,  spur  on  and 

fight  it  out!" 
And  now  he  wards  a  Roundhead's  pike,  and  now  he 

hums  a  stave, 
And  here  he  quotes  a  stage-play,  and  there  he  fells  a 

knave. 


S/R  NICHOLAS  AT  MARSTON  MOOR.    219 

Gfood  speed  to  thee,  Sir  Nicholas! -thou  hast  no  thought 

o£  fear; 
Good  speed  to  thee,  Sir  Nicholas  !  but  fearful  odds  are 

here. 
The  traitors  ring  thee  round,  and  with  every  blow  and 

thrust, 
"Down,   down,"   they  cry,   "with  Belial,  down  with 

him  to  the  dust!  " 
"I    would,"   quoth   grim   old   Oliver,    "that    Belial's 

trusty  sword 
This  day  were  doing  battle  for  the  Saints  and  for  the 

Lord!" 

The  Lady  Alice  sits  with  her  maidens  in  her  bower; 

The  gray-haired  warden  watches  on  the  castle's  high- 
est tower. 

•'  What  i>ews,  what  news,  old  Anthony?  "  "  The  field 
is  lost  and  won  ; 

The  ranks  of  war  are  melting  as  the  mists  beneath  the 
sun  ; 

And  a  wounded  man  speeds  hither,  —  I  am  old  and 
cannot  see, 

Or  sure  I  am  that  sturdy  step  my  master's  step  should 
be." 

"  I  bring   thee  back  the  standard  from  as  rude   and 

rough  a  fray. 
As  e'er  was    proof   of    soldier's  thews,   or  theme   for 

minstrel's  lay. 
Bid  Hubert  fetch  the  silver  bowl,  and  liquor  quantum 

svjf; 
\  '11  make  a  shift  to  drain  it,  ere  I  part  with  boot  and 

buff; 


i^BBi 


220  BALLADS  AND  LYEICS. 

Though  Guy  through  nian\'  a  gaping  wound  is  breath- 
ing out  his  life, 

And  I  come  to  thee  a  landless  man,  my  fond  and  faith- 
ful wife! 

"  Sweet,  we  will  fill  our  money-bags  and  freight  a  ship 
for  France, 

And  mourn  in  merry  Paris  for  this  poor  realm's  mis- 
chance; 

Or,  if  the  worst  betide  me,  why,  better  axe  or  rope. 

Than  life  with  Lenthal  for  a  king,  and  Peters  for  a 
pope ! 

Alas,  alas,  my  gallant  Guy!  —  out  on  the  crop-eared 
boor. 

That  sent  me  with  my  standard  on  foot  from  Marston 
Moor!" 

WiNTHROP   MaCKWORTH    PkAED.^ 


THE  EXECUTION  OF  MONTROSE.^ 

Come  hither,  Evan  Cameron ! 

Come,  stand  beside  my  knee; 
I  hear  the  river  roaring  down 

Towards  the  wintry  sea. 
There  's  shouting  on  the  mountain  side, 

There  's  war  within  the  blast; 

1  WiNTiiROP  Mackworth  Praed,  born  in  London  in  1802, 
was  educated  at  Eton  and  Cambridge,  where  he  was  distiu- 
puished  as  a  scholar  and  orator.  He  was  called  to  the  bar  in 
1829,  and  entered  Parliament  in  the  following  year.  He  ros6 
rapidly  both  in  politics  and  in  literature,  but  died,  while  still 
Very  young,  in  1839.     His  poems  are  light  and  graceful. 

2  James  Graham,  Marquis  of  Montrose.    See  page  44. 


THE  EXECUTION  OF  MONTROSE.    221 

Old  faces  look  upon  me, 

Old  forms  go  trooping  past: 
I  hear  the  pibroch  wailing 

Amidst  the  din  of  fight, 
And  my  dim  spirit  wakes  again 

Upon  the  verge  of  night. 

'T  was  I  that  led  the  Highland  host 

Through  wild  Lochaber's  snows 
What  time  the  plaided  clans  came  down 

To  battle  with  Montrose. 
I  've  told  thee  how  the  Southrons  fell 

Beneath  the  broad  claymore, 
And  how  we  smote  the  Campbell  clan 

By  Inverlochy's  shore. 
I  've  told  thee  how  we  swept  Dundee, 

And  tamed  the  Lindsays'  pride  ; 
But  never  have  I  told  thee  yet 

How  the  Great  Marquis  died. 

A  traitor  sold  him  to  his  foes; 

O  deed  of  deathless  shame! 
I  charge  thee,  boy,  if  e'er  thou  meet 

With  one  of  Assynt's  name,  — 
Be  it  upon  the  mountain's  side. 

Or  yet  within  the  glen. 
Stand  he  in  martial  gear  alone. 

Or  backed  by  armed  men,  — 
Face  him,  as  thou  wouldst  face  the  man 

Who  wronged  thy  sire's  renown  ; 
Remember  of  what  blood  thou  art, 

And  strike  the  caitiff  down  ! 

They  brought  him  to  the  Watergate, 
Hard  bound  with  hempen  span. 


222  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

As  though  they  held  a  lion  there, 

And  not  a  fenceless  man. 
They  set  him  high  upon  a  cart,  — 

The  hangman  rode  below,  — 
They  drew  his  hands  behind  his  back, 

And  bared  his  noble  brow. 
Then,  as  a  hound  is  slipped  from  leash, 

They  cheered,  the  common  throng, 
And  blew  the  note  with  yell  and  shout. 

And  bade  him  pass  along. 

It  would  have  made  a  brave  man's  heart 

Grow  sad  and  sick  that  day, 
To  watch  the  keen  malignant  eyes 

Bent  down  on  that  array. 
There  stood  the  Whig  west-country  lords 

In  balcony  and  bow; 
There  sat  their  gaunt  and  withered  dames, 

And  their  daughters  all  a-row. 
And  every  open  window 

Was  full  as  full  might  be 
With  black-robed  Covenanting  carles, 

That  goodly  sport  to  see! 

But  when  he  came,  though  pale  and  wan, 

He  looked  so  great  and  high. 
So  noble  was  his  manly  front. 

So  calm  his  steadfast  eye. 
The  rabble  rout  forbore  to  shout. 

And  each  man  held  his  breath. 
For  well  they  knew  the  hero's  soul 

Was  face  to  face  with  death. 
And  then  a  mournful  shudder 

Through  all  the  people  crept. 
And  some  that  came  to  scoff  at  him 

Now  turned  aside  and  wept. 


THE  EXECUTION  OF  MONTROSE.    223 

Had  I  been  there  with  sword  in  hand, 

And  fifty  Camerons  by, 
That  day  through  high  Dunedin's  streets 

Had  pealed  the  slogan-cry. 
Not  all  their  troops  of  trampling  horse, 

Nor  might  of  mailed  men,  — 
Not  all  the  rebels  in  the  south 

Had  borne  us  backwards  then  I 
Once  more  his  foot  on  Highland  heath 

Had  trod  as  free  as  air, 
Or  I,  and  all  who  bore  my  name, 

Been  laid  around  him  there! 

It  might  not  be.     They  placed  him  next  I 

Within  the  solemn  hall,  ^ 

Where  once  the  Scottish  kings  were  throned 

Amidst  their  nobles  all. 
But  there  was  dust  of  vulgar  feet 

On  that  polluted  floor, 
And  perjured  traitors  filled  the  place 

Where  good  men  sate  before. 
W^ith  savage  glee  came  Warristoun 

To  read  the  murderous  doom; 
And  then  uprose  the  great  Montrose 

In  the  middle  of  the  room. 

'  Now,  by  my  faith  as  belted  knight. 

And  by  the  name  I  bear, 
And  by  the  bright  Saint  Andrew's  cross 

That  waves  above  us  there, 
Yea,  by  a  greater,  mightier  oath,  — 

And  O,  that  such  should  be!  — 
By  that  dark  stream  of  royal  blood 

That  lies  'twixt  you  and  me, 
I  have  not  sought  in  battle-field 


224  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

A  wreath  of  such  renown, 
Nor  dared  I  hope  on  my  dying  day 
To  win  the  martyr's  crown! 

' '  There  is  a  cliamher  far  away 

Where  sleep  the  good  and  brave, 
But  a  better  place  ye  have  named  for  me 

Than  by  my  father's  grave. 
For  truth  and  right,  'gainst  treason's  might, 

This  hand  hath  always  striven. 
And  ye  raise  it  up  for  a  witness  still 

In  the  eye  of  earth  and  heaven. 
Then  nail  my  head  on  yonder  tower  — 

Give  every  town  a  limb  — 
And  God  who  made  shall  gather  them  : 

I  go  from  you  to  Hun!  " 

The  morning  dawned  full  darkly. 

The  rain  came  flashing  down. 
And  the  jagged  streak  of  the  levin-bolt 

Lit  up  the  gloomy  town  : 
The  thunder  crashed  across  the  heaven, 

The  fatal  hour  was  come; 
Yet  aye  broke  in  with  muffled  beat 

The  'larum  of  the  drum. 
There  was  madness  on  the  earth  below, 

And  anger  in  the  sky. 
And  young  and  old,  and  rich  and  poor, 

Came  forth  to  see  him  die. 

Ah,  God !  that  ghastly  gibbet! 

How  dismal  'tis  to  see 
The  great  tall  spectral  skeleton, 

The  ladder  and  the  tree! 
Hark!  hark!  it  is  the  clash  of  arms  — 


THE  EXECUTION  OF  MONTROSE.    225 

The  bells  begin  to  toll  — 
"  He  is  coming!  he  is  coming! 

God's  mercy  on  his  soul!  " 
One  last  long  peal  o£  thunder  — 

The  clouds  are  cleared  away, 
And  the  glorious  sun  once  more  looks  down 

Amidst  the  dazzling  day. 

"  He  is  coming!  he  is  coming!  " 

Like  a  bridegroom  from  his  room, 
Came  the  hero  from  his  prison 

To  the  scaffold  and  the  doom. 
There  was  glory  on  his  forehead, 

There  was  lustre  in  his  eye. 
And  he  never  walked  to  battle 

More  proudly  than  to  die: 
There  was  color  in  his  visage. 

Though  the  cheeks  of  all  were  wan. 
And  they  marvelled  as  they  saw  him  pass, 

That  great  and  goodly  man  ! 

He  mounted  up  the  scaffold, 

And  he  turned  him  to  the  crowd; 
But  they  dared  not  trust  the  people, 

So  he  might  not  speak  aloud. 
But  he  looked  upon  the  heavens, 

And  they  were  clear  and  blue, 
And  in  the  liquid  ether 

The  eye  of  God  shone  through! 
Yet  a  black  and  murky  battlement 

Lay  resting  on  the  hill. 
As  though  the  thunder  slept  within,— 

All  else  was  calm  and  still. 
15 


226  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

The  grim  Geneva  ministers 

With  anxious  scowl  drew  near, 
As  you  have  seen  the  ravens  flock 

Around  the  dying  deer. 
He  would  not  deign  them  word  nor  sign, 

But  alone  he  bent  the  knee ; 
And  veiled  his  face  for  Christ's  dear  grace, 

Beneath  the  gallows-tree. 
Then  radiant  and  serene  he  rose, 

And  cast  his  cloak  away: 
For  he  had  ta'en  his  latest  look 

Of  earth  and  sun  and  day. 

A  beam  of  light  fell  o'er  him, 

Like  a  glory  round  the  shriven, 
And  he  climbed  the  lofty  ladder 

As  it  were  the  path  to  heaven, 
Then  came  a  flash  from  out  the  cloud, 

And  a  stunning  thunder-roU; 
And  no  man  dared  to  look  aloft, 

For  fear  was  on  evei'y  soul. 
There  was  another  heavy  sound, 

A  hush  and  then  a  groan ; 
And  darkness  swept  across  the  sky,  — 

The  work  of  death  was  done. 

William  Edmondstoune  Aytoun. 


THE  DREAM  OF  ARGYLE.  227 


THE  DREAM  OF  ARGYLE.^ 

Earthly  arms  no  more  uphold  him, 

On  his  prison's  stony  floor, 
Waiting  death  in  his  last  slumber, 

Lies  the  doomed  Mac  Galium  More. 

And  he  dreams  a  dream  of  boyhood  ; 

Rise  again  his  heathery  hills, 
Sound  again  the  hound's  long  baying, 

Cry  of  moor-fowl,  laugh  of  rills. 

Now  he  stands  amidst  his  clansmen 

In  the  low,  long  banquet-hall. 
Over  grim,  ancestral  armor 

Sees  the  ruddy  firelight  fall. 

»     Once  again,  with  pulses  beating. 

Hears  the  wandering  minstrel  tell 
How  Montrose  on  Inverary 

Thief-like  from  his  mountains  fell. 

Down  the  glen,  beyond  the  castle. 
Where  the  linn's  swift  waters  shine, 

Round  the  youthful  heir  of  Argyle 
Shy  feet  glide  and  white  arms  twine. 

1  Archibald  Campbell,  ninth  Earl  of  Argyle.  He  fought  for 
the  royal  cause  at  Dunbar  in  1650,  and  in  1GG3  was  restored^ 
his  earldom  and  estates.  Being  required  to  take  the  "  Test  "  in 
1681  he  declined  unless  he  could  make  a  reservation  in  favor  of 
the  Protestant  faith.  For  this  he  was  condemned  to  death  and 
obliged  to  flee  the  country.  He  returned  in  1685,  was  taken 
prisoner  and  executed,  as  his  father  had  been  before  him.  He 
is  said  to  have  slept  soundly  a  few  hours  befdre  his  execution. 


228  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Fairest  of  the  rustic  dancers, 

Blue-eyed  Effie  smiles  once  more, 

Bends  to  him  her  snooded  tresses, 
Treads  with  him  the  grassy  floor. 

Now  he  hears  the  pipes  lamenting, 
Harpers  for  his  mother  mourn. 

Slow,  with  sable  plume  and  pennon, 
To  her  cairn  of  burial  borne. 

Then  anon  his  dreams  are  darker. 
Sounds  of  battle  fill  his  ears. 

And  the  pibroch's  mournful  wailing 
For  his  father's  fall  he  hears. 

Wild  Lochaber's  mountain  echoes 
Wail  in  concert  for  the  dead, 

And  Loch  Awe's  deep  waters  murmur 
For  the  Campbell's  glory  fled!  ^ 

Fierce  and  strong  the  godless  tyrants 
Trample  the  apostate  land, 

AVhile  her  poor  and  faithful  remnant 
Wait  for  the  avenger's  hand. 

Once  again  at  Inverary, 

Years  of  weary  exile  o'er. 
Armed  to  lead  his  scattered  clansmen, 

Stands  the  bold  Mac  Galium  More. 

Once  again  to  battle  calling 

Sound  the  war-pipes  through  the  glen; 
And  the  court-yard  of  Dunstaffnage 

Rino;s  with  tread  of  armed  men. 


BOOT  AND  SADDLE.  229 

All  is  lost!  the  godless  triumph, 

And  the  faithful  ones  and  true 
Frofli  the  scaffold  and  the  prison 

Covenant  with  God  anew. 

On  the  darkness  of  his  dreaming 

Great  and  sudden  glory  shone; 
Over  bonds  and  death  victorious 

Stands  he  by  the  Father's  throne 

From  the  radiant  ranks  of  martyrs 
Notes  of  joy  and  praise  he  hears, 

Songs  of  his  poor  land's  deliverance 
Sounding  from  the  future  years. 

Lo,  he  wakes!  but  airs  celestial 

Bathe  him  in  immortal  rest, 
And  he  sees  with  unsealed  vision 

Scotland's  cause  with  victory  blest. 

Shining  hosts  attend  and  guard  him 

As  he  leaves  his  prison  door; 
And  to  death  as  to  a  triumi)h 

Walks  the  great  Mac  Galium  More  ! 

Elizabeth  H.  Whittier.i 


BOOT   AND   SADDLE. 


Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away  ! 
Rescue  my  castle  before  the  hot  day 
Brightens  to  blue  from  its  silvery  gray. 

Chorus.     Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away! 

'  Elizabkth    H.  Whittier,    sister  of   the   poet,    John   G 
IVhittier.     See  page  322. 


230  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

s 

Ride  past  the  suburbs,  asleep  as  you  'd  say ; 
Many  's  the  friend  there  will  listen  and  pray, 
'*  God's  luck  to  gallants  that  strike  up  the  lay, — 
Chorus.     "Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away  !  " 

Forty  miles  off,  like  a  roebuck  at  bay, 
Flouts    castle  Brancepeth  the  Roundheads'  array: 
Who  laughs,  "  Good  fellows  ere  this,  by  my  fay, 
CJwrus.      "Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away?  " 

Who?  my  wife  Gertrude;  that,  honest  and  gay. 
Laughs  when  you  talk  of  surrendering,  "  Nay!  " 
'  I  've  better  counsellors  ;  what  counsel  they? 

Chorus.     "  Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away!  " 
Robert  Browning. 


THE  NORMAN  BARON. 

In  his  chamber,  weak  and  dying. 
Was  the  Norman  baron  l^'ing; 
Loud,  without,  the  tempest  thundered, 
And  the  castle-turret  shook. 

In  this  fight  was  Death  the  gainer. 
Spite  of  vassal  and  retainer, 
And  the  lands  his  sires  had  plundered, 
Written  in  the  Doomsday  Book. 

By  his  bed  a  monk  was  seated, 
Who  in  humble  voice  repeated 
Many  a  prayer  and  pater-noster, 
From  the  missal  on  his  knee; 


THE  NORMAN  BARON.-  231 

And,  amid  the  tempest  pealing, 
Sounds  of  bells  came  faintly  stealing, 
Bells,  that  from  the  neighboring  kloster 
Rang  for  the  Nativit}-. 

In  the  hall,  the  serf  and  vassal 

Held,  that  night,  their  Christmas  wassail; 

Many  a  carol,  old  and  saintly. 

Sang  the  minstrels  and  the  waits ; 

And  so  loud  these  Saxon  gleemen 
Sang  to  slaves  the  songs  of  freemen, 
That  the  storm  was  heard  but  faintly, 
Knocking  at  the  castle-gates. 

Till  at  length  the  lays  they  chanted 
Reached  the  chamber  terror-haunted, 
Where  the  monk,  with  accents  holy, 
Whispered  at  the  baron's  ear. 

Tears  upon  his  eyelids  glistened, 
»  As  he  paused  a  while  and  listened, 
And  the  dying  baron  slowly 
Turned  his  weary  head  to  hear. 

"  Wassail  for  the  kingly  stranger 
Born  and  cradled  in  a  manger! 
King,  like  David,  priest,  like  Aaron, 
Christ  is  born  to  set  us  free!  " 

And  the  lightning  showed  the  sainted 
Figures  on  the  casement  painted, 
And  exclaimed  the  shuddering  baron, 
"  Miserere,  Domine! " 


232  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

In  that  hour  of  deep  contrition 
He  beheld,  with  clearer  vision, 
Through  all  outward  show  and  fashion, 
Justice,  the  Avenger,  rise. 

All  the  pomp  of  earth  had  vanished, 

Falsehood  and  deceit  were  banished. 

Reason  spake  more  loud  than  passion, 

And  the  truth  wore  no  disguise. 

Every  vassal  of  his  banner. 
Every  serf  born  to  his  manor, 
All  those  wronged  and  wretched  creatures, 
By  his  hand  were  freed  again. 

And,  as  on  the  sacred  missal 
He  recorded  their  dismissal. 
Death  relaxed  his  iron  features. 
And  the  monk  replied,  "  Amen !  " 

Many  centuries  have  been  numbered 
Since  in  deatli  the  baron  slumbered 
By  the  convent's  sculptured  portal, 
Mingling  with  the  common  dust  : 

But  the  good  deed,  through  the  ages, 
Living  in  historic  pages. 
Brighter  grows,  and  gleams  immortal, 
Unconsumed  by  moth  or  rust. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE  WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE  PORTS.    233 


THE  WARDEN   OF  THE  CINQUE  PORTS. 

A  MIST  was  driving  down  the  British  Channel, 

The  day  was  just  begun, 
And  through  the  window-panes,  on  floor  and  panel, 

Streamed  the  red  autumn  sun. 

It  glanced  on  flowing  flag  and  rippling  pennon. 

And  the  Avhite  sails  of  ships; 
And,  from  the  frowning  rampart,  the  black  cannon 

Hailed  it  with  feverish  lips. 

Sandwich  and  Romney,  Hastings,  Hithe,  and  Dover 

Were  all  alert  that  day, 
To  see  the  French  war-steamers  speeding  over, 

When  the  fog  cleared  away. 

Sullen  and  silent,  and  like  couchant  lions, 

Their  cannon,  through  the  night, 
Holding  their  breath,  had  watched,  in  grim  defiance, 

The  sea-coast  opposite. 

And  now  they  roared  at  drum-beat  from  their  stations, 

On  every  citadel; 
Each  answering  each,  with  morning  salutations, 

That  all  was  well. 

And  down  the  coast,  all  taking  up  the  burden, 

Rci)licd  the  distant  forts. 
As  if  to  summon  from  his  sleep  the  Warden 

And  Lord  of  the  Cinque  Ports. 

Him  shall  no  sunshine  from  the  fields  of  aznre, 
No  drum-beat  from  the  wall. 


234  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

No  mornino--gun  from  the  black  fort's  embrasure, 
Awaken  with  its  call ! 

No  more,  surveying  with  an  eye  impartial 

The  long  line  of  the  coast, 
Shall  the  gaunt  figure  of  the  old  Field  Marshal 

Be  seen  upon  his  post! 

For  in  the  night,  unseen,  a  single  warrior, 

In  sombre  harness  mailed, 
Dreaded  of  man,  and  surnamed  the  Destroyer, 

The  rampart  wall  had  scaled. 

He  pafjsed  into  the  chamber  of  the  sleeper, 

The  dark  and  silent  room. 
And  as  he  entered,  darker  grew,  and  deeper, 

The  silence  and  the  gloom. 

He  did  not  pause  to  parley  or  dissemble. 

But  smote  the  Warden  hoar; 
Ah!  what  a  blow!  that  made  all  England  tremble 

And  groan  from  shore  to  shore. 

Meanwhile,  without,  the  surly  cannon  waited, 

The  sun  rose  bright  o'erhead  ; 
Nothing  in  Nature's  aspect  intimated 

That  a  great  man  was  dead. 

Henky  Wadswokth  Longfellow. 


HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  NEWS.    235 

HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS 
FROM  GHENT  TO  AIX. 

[16-.] 

I  SPRANG  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he; 

I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three; 

"Good  speed!"    cried   the  watch,   as    the  gate-bolts 

undrew; 
"  Speed!  "  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through; 
Bfhind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 
And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other;  we  kept  the  great  pace 
Neck   by  neck,  stride   by  stride,   never  changing  our 

])lace ; 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight. 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the  pique  right, 
Rebuckled  the  cheek-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 

'T  was  moonset  at  starting;  but  while  we  drew  near 
Lokeren,  the  cooks  crew  and  twilight  dawned  clear; 
At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see-; 
At  Diiflield,  't  was  morning  as  plain  as  could  be; 
And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard  the  half- 
chime, 
So  Joris  broke  silence  with,  "  Yet  there  is  time!  " 


At  Aershot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 

And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one, 

To  stare  thro'  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past. 

And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last, 

With  resolute  shoidders  each  butting  away 

The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  lieadhuid  its  spray  : 


236  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent 

back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track  ; 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence,  —  ever  that  glance 
O'er  its  wliite  edge  at  me,  his  own  master,  askance! 
And    the   thick   heavy    spume-flakes   which    aye   and 

anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping  on. 

By  Hasselt,   Dirck  groaned;    and  cried  Joris,  "  Stay 

spur! 
Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault 's  not  in  her. 
We  '11  remember  at  Aix  "  — for  one  heard  the  quick 

wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck  and  staggering 

knees, 
And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank, 
As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 

So  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 
Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky  ; 
The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 
'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright  stubble  like 

chaff: 
Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprung  white. 
And  "  Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "  for  Aix  is  in  sight!  " 

"  How  they  '11  greet  us!  " —  and  all  in  a  moment  his 

roan 
Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone  ; 
And  there  was  my  Roland,  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of   the  news  which   alone  could  save  Aix  from   her 

fate. 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 


"  In  the  market-place  of  Bruges  stands 
The  belfry  old  and  brown."     See  p.  237. 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES.  237 

Then  T  cast  loose  my  biiffcoat,  each  holster  let  fall, 
Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all, 
Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 
Called   my   Roland   his   pet   name,    my   horse   without 

peer; 
Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and   sang,  any  noise,  bad 

or  good, 
Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is,  friends  flocking  round 
As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the  ground 
And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine, 
As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of  wine. 
Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 
Was   no   more   than   his   due  wdio  brought  good   news 
from  Ghent. 

Robert  Browning. 


THE   BELFRY   OF   BRUGES. 

In   the   market-place   of  Bruges  stands  the  belfry  old 

and  brown; 
Thrice  consumed  and  thrice  rebuilded,  still  it  watches 

o'er  the  town. 

As  the  summer  morn  was  breaking,  on  that  lofty  tower 

I  stood. 
And  the  world  threw  off  the  darkness,  like  the  weeds 

of  widowhood. 

Thick    with    towns    and    hamlets    studded,    and    with 

streams  and  vapors  gray, 
Like  a  shield  embossed  with  silver,  round  and  vast  the 

landscape  lay. 


238  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

At  my  feet  the  city  slumbered.     From  its  chimneys, 

here  and  there, 
Wreaths   of  snow-white   smoke,   ascending,    vanished, 

ghost-like,  into  air. 

Not  a  sound  rose  from  the  city  at  that  early  morning 

hour, 
But    I  heard  a  heart  of  iron   beating  in  the  ancient 

tower. 

From  their  nests  beneath  the  rafters  sang  the  swallows 
wild  and  high; 

And  the  world,  beneath  me  sleeping,  seemed  more  dis- 
tant than  the  sky. 

Then    most   musical    and    solemn,  bringing   back  the 

olden  times. 
With    their    strange,     unearthly    changes    rang    the 

melancholy  chimes, 

I^ike  the  psalms  from  some  old  cloister,  when  the  nuns 
sing  in  the  choir; 

And  the  great  bell  tolled  among  them,  like  the  chant- 
ing of  a  friar. 

Visions    of    the    days    departed,    shadowy    phantoms 

filled  my  brain; 
They  who  live  in  history  only  seemed   to  walk   the 

earth  again; 

All  the  Foresters  of  Flanders,  — mighty  Baldwin  Bras 
de  Fer, 

Lyderick  du  Bucq  and  Cressy,  Philip,  Guy  de  Dam- 
pie  rre. 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES.  239 

I  beheld  the  pageants  splendid  that  adorned  those  days 

of  old ; 
Stately   dames,    like   queens   attended,    knights    who 

bore  the  Fleece  of  Gold. 

Lombard  and  Venetian  merchants  with  deep-laden  ar- 
gosies ; 

Ministers  from  twenty  nations;  more  than  royal  pomp 
and  ease. 

I  beheld    proud  Maximilian,  kneeling  humbly  on  the 

ground ; 
I  beheld  the  gentle  Mary,  hunting  with  her  hawk  and 

hound; 

And  her  lighted  bridal-chamber,  where  a  duke  slept 
with  the  queen, 

And  the  armed  guard  around  them,  and  the  sword  un- 
sheathed between. 

I  beheld  the  Flemish  weavers,  with  Namur  and  Juliers 

bold, 
Marching  homeward  from   the   bloody  battle    of  the 

Spurs  of  Gold. 

Saw  the  fight  at  Minnewater,  saw  the  White  Hoods 

moving  west. 
Saw  great    Artevelde    victorious    scale    the    Golden 

Dragon's  nest. 

And  again  the   whiskered  Spaniard  all  the  land  with 

terror  smote; 
And  again  the  wild  alarum  sounded  from  the  tocsin's 

throat . 


HO  BALLADS  AND  LYIUCS. 

rill  the  bell  of  Ghent  responded  o'er  lagoon  and  dike 

of  sand, 
T  am  Roland !  I  am  Koland  1  there  is  victory  in  the 

land!" 

Then  the  sound  of  drums  aroused  me.    The  awakened 

city's  roar 
Chased  the  phantoms  I  had  summoned  back  into  their 

graves  once  more. 

Hours   had  passed  away  like   minutes;   and,  before  I 

was  aware, 
Lo!  the  shadow  of  the  belfry  crossed  the  sun-illumined 

square. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


HORATIUS. 

Lars  Porsf.na  of  Clusium 

By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore 
That  the  great  house  of  Tarquin 

Should  suffer  wrong  no  more. 
By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore  it 

And  named  a  trysting  day. 
And  bade  his  messengers  ride  forth, 
East  and  west  and  south  and  north, 

To  summon  his  array. 

East  and  west  and  south  and  north 
The  messengers  ride  fast. 

And  'tower  and  town  and  cottage 
Have  heard  the  trumpet's  blast. 

Shame  on  the  false  Etruscan 
Who  lingers  in  his  home, 


HORATIUS.  24i 

When  Porsena  of  Clusium 
Is  on  the  march  for  Rome. 

And  now  hath  every  city 

Sent  up  her  tale  of  men; 
The  foot  are  fourscore  thousand, 

The  horse  are  thousands  ten. 
Before  the  gates  of  Sutrium 

Is  met  the  great  array. 
A  proud  man  was  Lars  Porsena 

Upon  the  trysting  day. 

For  all  the  Etruscan  armies 

Were  ranged  beneath  his  eye, 
And  many  a  banished  Roman, 

And  many  a  stout  ally  : 
And  with  a  mighty  following 

To  join  the  muster  came 
The  Tusculan  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name. 

But  by  the  yellow  Tiber 

Was  tumult  and  affright: 
From  all  the  spacious  champaign 

To  Rome  men  took  their  flight. 
A  mile  around  the  city 

The  throng  stopped  up  the  ways; 
A  fearful  sight  it  was  to  see 

Through  two  long  nights  and  days. 

To  eastward  and  to  westward 

Have  spread  the  Tuscan  bands; 
Nor  house,  nor  fence,  nor  dnvo-cote 

In  Crustmneriuni  stands. 
Verbenna  down  to  Ostia 
16 


f 


242  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Hath  wasted  all  the  plain; 
Astur  hath  stormed  Janiculum, 
And  the  stout  guards  are  slain. 

I  wis,  in  all  the  Senate, 

There  was  no  heart  so  bold, 
But  sore  it  ached  and  fast  it  beat, 

When  that  ill  news  was  told. 
Forthwith  up  rose  the  Consul, 

Up  rose  the  Fathers  all ; 
In  haste  they  girded  up  their  gowns, 

And  hied  them  to  the  wall. 

They  held  a  council  standing 

Before  the  Kiver-Gate; 
Short  time  was  there,  ye  well  may  guess, 

For  musing  or  debate. 
Out  spake  the  Consul  roundly: 

"  The  bridge  must  straight  go  down  ; 
For,  since  Janiculum  is  lost, 

Nought  else  can  save  the  town." 

Just  then  a  scout  came  flying, 

All  wild  with  haste  and  fear: 
"  To  arms!  to  arms!   Sir  Consul: 

Lars  Porsena  is  here  !  " 
On  the  low  hills  to  westward 

The  Consul  fixed  his  eye, 
And  saw  the  swarthy  storm  of  dust 

Rise  fast  along  the  sky. 

And  nearer  fast  and  nearer 

Doth  the  red  whirlwind  come  ; 
And  louder  still  and  still  more  loud, 
From  underneath  that  rolling  cloud, 


HORATIUS.  243 

Is  heard  the  trumpet's  war-note  proud, 

The  trampling  and  the  hum. 
And  plainly  and  more  plainly 

Now  through  the  gloom  appears, 
Far  to  left  and  far  to  right, 
In  broken  gleams  of  dark-blue  light, 
The  long  array  of  helmets  bright, 

The  long  array  of  spears. 

Fast  by  the  royal  standard, 

O'erlooking  all  the  war, 
Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Sat  in  his  ivory  car. 
By  the  right  wheel  rode  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name; 
And  by  the  left  false  Sextus, 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame. 

But  when  the  face  of  Sextus 

Was  seen  among  the  foes, 
A  yell  that  rent  the  firmament 

From  all  the  town  arose. 
On  the  house-tops  was  no  woman 

But  spat  towards  him  and  hissed. 
No  child  but  screamed  out  curses. 

And  shook  its  little  fist. 

But  the  Consul's  brow  was  sad, 

And  the  Consul's  speech  was  low, 
And  darkly  looked  he  at  the  wall. 

And  darkly  at  the  foe. 
Their  van  will  be  upon  us 

Before  the  bridge  goes  down  ; 
And  if  they  once  may  win  the  briilge, 

What  hope  to  save  the  town  V  " 


244  BALLADb-  AND  LYRICS 

Then  out  spake  brave  Horatius, 

The  Captain  of  the  Gate: 
"  To  every  man  upon  this  earth 

Death  cometh  soon  or  hite. 
And  how  can  man  die  better 

Than  facing  fearful  odds, 
For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers, 

And  the  temples  of  his  Gods, 

"  And  for  tbe  tender  mother 

Who  dandled  him  to  rest, 
And  for  the  wife  who  nurses 

His  baby  at  her  breast, 
And  for  the  holy  maidens 

Who  feed  the  eternal  flame, 
To  save  them  from  false  Sextus 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame  T 

"  Hew  down  tbe  bridge,  Sir  Consul, 

With  all  the  speed  ye  may; 
I,  with  two  more  to  help  me. 

Will  bold  the  foe  in  play. 
In  yon  strait  path  a  thousand 

May  Avell  be  stopped  by  tbree. 
Now  who  will  stand  on  either  band. 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  me  ?  " 

Then  out  spake  Spurius  Lartius; 
A  Ramnian  proud  was  he: 
"  Lo,  1  will  stand  at  thy  right  hand. 
And  keep  tbe  bridge  with  thee." 
And  out  spake  strong  Herminius; 
Of  Titian  blood  was  he: 
"  I  will  abide  on  thy  left  side, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 


HO  RATI  us.  245 

"  Horatius,"  quoth  the  Consul, 

"  As  thou  sayest,  so  let  it  be." 
Anil  straight  against  that  great  array 

Forth  went  the  dauntless  Three. 
For  Romans  in  Rome's  quarrels 

Spared  neither  land  nor  gold, 
Nor  son  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life, 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Then  none  was  for  a  party; 

Then  all  were  for  the  state; 
Then  the  great  man  helped  the  poor, 

And  the  poor  man  loved  the  great; 
Then  lands  were  fairly  portioned  ; 

Then  spoils  were  fairly  sold: 
The  Romans  were  like  brothers 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Now  Roman  is  to  Roman 

More  hateful  than  a  foe, 
And  the  Tribunes  beard  the  high. 

And  the  Fathers  grind  the  low. 
As  we  wax  hot  in  faction. 

In  battle  we  wax  cold: 
Wherefore  men  fight  not  as  they  fought 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Now  while  the  Three  were  tightening 

Their  harness  on  their  backs. 
The  Consul  was  the  foremost  man 

To  take  in  hand  an  axe: 
And  Fathers  mixed  with  Commons 

Seized  hatchet,  bar,  and  crow, 
And  smote  upon  the  planks  above, 

And  loosed  the  props  below. 


1 


246  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Meanwhile  the  Tuscan  army, 

Right  glorious  to  behold, 
Come  flashing  back  the  noonday  light, 
Rank  behind  rank,  like  surges  bright 

Of  a  broad  sea  of  gold. 
Four  hundred  trumpets  sounded 

A  peal  of  warlike  glee, 
As  that  great  host  with  measured  tread. 
And  spears  advanced,  and  ensigns  spread. 
Rolled  slowly  towards  the  bridge's  head, 

Where  stood  the  dauntless  Three. 

The  Three  stood  calm  and  silent, 

And  looked  upon  the  foes, 
And  a  great  shout  of  laughter 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose: 
And  forth  three  chiefs  came  spuri-ing 

Before  that  deep  array ; 
To  earth  they  sprang,  their  swords  they  drew, 
And  lifted  high  their  shields,  and  flew 

To  win  the  narrow  way  ; 

Aunus  from  green  Tifernum, 

Lord  of  the  Hill  of  Vines; 
And  Seius,  whose  eight  hundred  slaves 

Sicken  in  Ilva's  mines; 
And  Picus,  long  to  Clusium 

Vassal  in  peace  and  war. 
Who  led  to  fight  his  Umbrian  powers 
Fi-om  that  gray  crag  where,  girt  with  towers, 
The  fortress  of  Nequinum  lowers 

O'er  the  pale  waves  of  Nar. 

Stout  Lartins  hurled  down  Aunus 
Into  the  stream  beneath ; 


T 


HORATIUS.  247 

Herminius  struck  at  Seius 

And  clove  him  to  the  teeth; 
At  Picus  brave  Horatius 

Darted  one  fiery  thrust; 
And  the  proud  Umbrian's  gilded  arms 

Clashed  in  the  bloody  dust. 

Then  Ocnus  of  Falerii 

Rushed  on  the  Roman  Three; 
And  Lausulus  of  IJrgo, 

The  rover  of  the  sea; 
And  Aruns  of  Volsinium, 

Who  slew  the  great' wild  boar,  — 
The  great  wild  boar  that  had  his  den 
Amidst  the  reeds  of  Cosa's  fen, 
And  wasted  fields,  and  slaughtered  men, 

Along  Albinia's  shore. 

Herminius  smote  down  Aruns; 

Lartius  laid  Ocnus  low  ; 
Right  to  the  heart  of  Lausulus 

Horatius  sent  a  blow. 
Lie  there,"  he  cried,  "  fell  pirate! 

No  more,  aghast  and  pale, 
From  Ostia's  walls  the  crowd  shall  mark 
The  track  of  thy  destroying  bark. 
No  more  Campania's  hinds  shall  fly 
To  woods  and  caverns  when  they  spy 

Thy  thrice  accursed  sail." 

But  now  no  sound  of  laughter 

Was  heard  among  the  foes. 
A  wild  and  wrathful  clamor 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose. 
Six  spears'  length  from  the  entrance 


248  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Halted  that  deep  array, 
And  for  a  space  no  man  came  forth 
To  win  the  narrow  way. 

But  hark  I  the  cry  is  Astur: 

And  lo!  the  ranks  divide; 
And  the  great  Lord  of  Luna 

Comes  with  his  stately  stride. 
Upon  his  ample  shoulders 

Clangs  loud  the  four-fold  shield, 
And  in  his  hand  he  shakes  the  brand 

Which  none  but  he  can  wield. 

He  smiled  on  those  bold  Romans 

A  smile  serene  and  high  ; 
He  eyed  the  flinching  Tuscans, 

And  scorn  was  in  his  eye. 
Quoth  he,  "  The  she-wolf's  litter 

Stand  savagely  at  bay  : 
But  will  ye  dare  to  follow, 

If  Astur  clears  the  way  ?  " 

Then,  whirling  up  his  broadsword 

With  both  hands  to  the  height. 
He  rushed  against  Horatius, 

And  smote  with  all  his  might. 
With  shield  and  blade  Horatius 

Right  deftly  turned  the  blow. 
The  blow,  though  turned,  came  yet  too  nigh  ; 
It  missed  his  helm,  but  gashed  his  thigh  : 
The  Tuscans  raised  a  joyful  cry 

To  see  the  red  blood  flow. 

He  reeled,  and  on  Herminius 
He  leaned  one  breathing-space  ; 


HORATIUS.  249 

Then,  like  a  wild-cat  mad  with  wounds, 

Sprang  right  at  Astur's  face. 
Through  teeth,  and  skull,  and  helmet, 

So  fierce  a  thrust  he  sped, 
The  good^  sword  stood  a  hand-breadth  out 

Behind  the  Tuscan's  head. 

And  the  great  Lord  of  Luna 

Fell  at  that  deadly  stroke. 
As  falls  on  Mount  Alvernus 

A  thunder-smitten  oak. 
Far  o'er  the  crashing  forest 

The  giant  arms  lie  spread  ; 
And  the  pale  augurs,  muttering  low, 

Gaze  on  the  blasted  head. 

On  Astur's  throat  Horatius 

Right  firmly  pressed  his  heel, 
And  thrice  and  four  times  tugged  amain. 

Ere  he  wrenched  out  the  steel. 
"  And  see,"  he  cried,  "the  welcome, 

Fair  guests,  that  waits  you  here  ! 
What  noble  Lucumo  comes  next 

To  taste  our  Roman  cheer  ?  " 

But  at  his  haughty  challenge 

A  sullen  murmur  ran, 
Mingled  of  wrath,  and  shame,  and  dread, 

Along  that  glittering  van. 
There  lacked  not  men  of  prowess, 

Nor  men  of  lordly  race  ; 
For  all  Etruria's  noblest 

Were  round  the  fatal  place. 

But  all  Etruria's  noblest 
Felt  their  hearts  sink  to  see 


250  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

On  the  earth  the  bloody  corpses, 

In  the  path  the  dauntless  Three  : 
And,  from  the  ghostly  entrance 

Where  those  bold  Romans  stood, 
All  shrank,  like  boys  who  unaware, 
Ranging  the  woods  to  start  a  hare, 
Come  to  the  mouth  of  the  dark  lair 
Where,  growling  low,  a  fierce  old  bear 
Lies  amidst  bones  and  blood. 

Was  none  who  would  be  foremost 

To  lead  such  dire  attack ; 
But  those  behind  cried  "  Forward  I  " 

And  those  before  cried  "  Back  I  " 
And  backward  now  and  forward 

Wavers  the  deep  array  ; 
And  on  the  tossing  sea  of  steel, 
To  and  fro  the  standards  reel; 
And  the  victorious  trumpet-peal 

Dies  fitfully  away. 

Yet  one  man  for  one  moment 

Strode  out  before  the  crowd  ; 
Well  known  was  he  to  all  the  Three, 

And  they  gave  him  greeting  loud. 
"  Now  welcome,  welcome,  Sextus  ! 

Now  welcome  to  thy  home  I 
Why  dost  thou  stay,  and  turn  away  ? 

Here  lies  the  road  to  Rome." 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  city ; 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  dead ; 
And  thrice  came  on  in  fury. 

And  thrice  turned  back  in  dread  ; 
And,  white  with  fear  and  hatred, 

Scowled  at  the  narrow  way 


HO  RATI  us.  251 

Where,  wallowing-  in  a  pool  of  blood, 
The  bravest  Tuscans  lay. 

But  meanwliile  axe  and  lever 
Have  manfully  been  plied  ; 
And  now  the  bridge  hnngs  tottering 
Above  the  boiling  tide. 
"  Come  back,  come  back,  Horatius  !  " 

Loud  cried  the  Fathers  all. 

"Back,  Lartius  !  Back,  Herminius  ! 

Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall  !  " 

Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius  ; 

Herminius  darted  back  : 
And,  as  they  passed,  beneath  their  feet 

They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 
But  when  they  turned  their  faces, 

And  on  the  farther  shore 
Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone, 

They  would  have  crossed  once  more. 

But  with  a  crash  like  thunder 

Fell  every  loosened  beam. 
And,  like  a  dam,  the  mighty  wreck 

Lay  right  athwart  the  stream  ; 
And  a  long  shout  of  triumph 

Rose  from  the  walls  of  Rome, 
As  to  the  highest  turret-tops 

Was  splashed  the  yellow  foam. 

And,  like  a  horse  unbroken 

When  first  he  feels  the  rein, 
The  furious  river  struggled  hard, 

And  tossed  his  tawny  mane, 
And  burst  the  curb,  and  bounded, 


!!^ai 


252  BALLADS  AXD  LYRICS. 

Rejoicinp;  to  be  free, 
And,  whirling  down,  in  fierce  career, 
Battlement,  and  plank,  and  pier, 

Rushed  headlong  to  the  sea. 

Alone  stood  brave  Horatiiis, 

But  constant  still  in  mind ; 
Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before, 
And  the  broad  flood  behind. 
"  Down  with  him  !  "  cried  false  Sextus, 

With  a  smile  on  his  pale  face. 
"  Now  yield  thee,"  cried  Lars  Porsena, 
"  Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace." 

Round  turned  he,  as  not  deigning 

Those  craven  ranks  to  see  ; 
Nought  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 

To  Sextus  nought  spake  he  ; 
But  he  saw  on  Palatinus 

The  white  porch  of  his  home  ; 
And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river 

That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome. 

"  O  Tiber  !  father  Tiber  ! 

To  whom  the  Romans  pray, 
A  Roman's  life,  a  Roman's  arms, 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day  !  " 
So  he  spake,  and  speaking  sheathed 

The  good  sword  by  his  side. 
And,  with  his  harness  on  his  back, 

Plunged  headlong  in  the  tide. 

No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow 

Was  heard  from  either  bank  ; 
But  friends  and  foes  in  dumb  surprise, 


EORATIUS.  253 

With  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes, 

Stood  gazing  where  he  sank  ; 
And  when  above  tlie  surges 

They  saw  his  crest  appear, 
All  Rome  sent  forth  a  rapturous  cry, 
And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 

Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 

But  fiercely  ran  the  current, 

Swollen  high  by  months  of  rain. 
And  fast  his  blood  was  flowing, 

And  he  was  sore  in  pain. 
And  heavy  with  his  armor. 

And  spent  with  changing  blows: 
And  oft  they  thought  him  sinking, 

But  still  again  he  rose. 

Never,  I  ween,  did  swimmer. 

In  such  an  evil  case, 
Struggle  through  such  a  raging  flood 

Safe  to  the  landing  place: 
But  his  limbs  were  borne  up  bravely 

By  the  brave  heart  within, 
And  our  good  father  Tiber 

Bare  bravely  up  his  chin. 

"Curse  on  him!"  quoth  false  Sextus; 
"  Will  not  the  villain  drown? 
But  for  this  stay,  ere  close  of  day 
We  should  have  sacked  the  town!  " 
**  Heaven  help  him!  "  quoth  Lars  Porscna, 
"  And  bring  him  safe  to  shore; 
For  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms 
Was  never  seen  before." 


254  BALLADS  AND   LYRICS. 

And  now  be  feels  the  bottom; 

Now  on  dry  eartb  he  stands; 
Now  round  hiin  throng  the  Fathers, 

To  press  his  gory  hands; 
And  now,  with  shouts  and  clapping, 

And  noise  of  weeping  loud, 
He  enters  through  the  River- Gate, 

Borne  by  the  joyous  crowd. 

They  gave  him  of  the  corn-land, 

That  was  of  public  right, 
As  much  as  two  strong  oxen 

Could  plough  from  morn  till  night; 
And  they  made  a  molten  image, 

And  set  it  up  on  high, 
And  there  it  stands  unto  this  day 

To  witness  if  I  lie. 

It  stands  in  the  Comitium, 

Plain  for  all  folk  to  see: 
Horatius  in  his  harness, 

Halting  upon  one  knee: 
And  underneath  is  written, 

In  letters  all  of  gold. 
How  valiantly  he  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

And  still  his  name  sounds  stirring 

Unto  the  men  of  Rome, 
As  the  trumpet-blast  that  cries  to  them 

To  charge  the  Volscian  home  ; 
And  wives  still  priiy  to  Juno 

For  boys  with  hearts  as  bold 
As  his  who  kept  the  bridge  so  well 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Lord  Macaulay. 


BURIAL   OF  THE  MINNISINK.         255 


BURIAL    OF   THE  MINNISINK. 

On  sunny  t^lope  and  beechen  swell, 
The  shadowed  light  of  evening  fell; 
And,  where  the  maple's  leaf  was  brown, 
Wiih  soft  and  silent  lapse  came  down 
The  glory  that  the  wood  receives, 
At  sunset,  in  its  golden  leaves. 

Far  upward  in  the  mellow  light 

Rose  the  blue  hills.      One  cloud  of  while, 

Around  a  far  uplifted  cone, 

In  the  warm  blush  of  evening  shone ; 

An  image  of  the  silver  lakes, 

By  which  the  Indian's  soul  awakes. 

But  soon  a  funeral  hymn  was  heard 
Where  the  soft  breath  of  evening  stirred 
The  tall,  gray  forest;  and  a  band 
Of  stern  in  heart,  and  strong  in  hand. 
Came  winding  down  beside  the  wave, 
To  lay  the  red  chief  in  his  grave. 

They  sang,  that  by  his  native  bowers 
He  stood,  in  the  last  moon  of  flowers, 
And  thirty  snows  had  not  yet  shed 
Their  glory  on  the  warrior's  head; 
But,  as  the  summer  fruit  decays, 
So  died  he  in  those  naked  days. 

A  dark  cloak  of  the  roebuck's  skin 
Covered  the  warrior,  and  within 
its  heavy  folds  the  weapons,  made 
For  the  hard  toils  of  war,  were  laid; 


r 


256  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

The  cuirass,  woven  of  plaited  reeds, 
And  the  broad  belt  of  shells  and  beads. 

Before,  a  dark-haired  virgin  train 
Chanted  the  death-dirge  of  the  slain; 
Behind,  the  long  procession  came 
Of  hoary  men  and  chiefs  of  fame, 
With  heavy  hearts,  and  eyes  of  grief, 
Leading  the  war-horse  of  their  chief. 

Stripped  of  his  proud  and  martial  dress, 
Uncurbed,  unreined,  and  riderless. 
With  darting  eye,  and  nostril  spread. 
And  heavy  and  impatient  tread. 
He  came;  and  oft  that  eye  so  proud 
Asked  for  his  rider  in  the  crowd. 

They  buried  the  dark  chief;  they  freed 
Beside  the  grave  his  battle-steed; 
And  swift  an  arrow  cleaved  its  way 
To  his  stern  heart!     One  piercing  neigh 
Arose,  and.  on  the  dead  man's  plain. 
The  rider  grasps  his  steed  again. 

Henry  Wadswohth  Longfellov 


THE   Pn.GRIM'S   VISION. 

In  the  hour  of  twilight  shadows 
The  Pilgrim  sire  looked  out; 

He  thought  of  the  "  bloudy  Salvages  " 
That  lurked  all  round  about. 

Of  Wituwamet's  pictured  knife 
And  Pecksuot's  whooping  shout; 


THE  PILGRIM'S  VISION.  257 

For  tlie  baby's  limbs  were  feeble, 
Though  his  father's  arms  were  stout. 


His  home  was  a  freezing  cabin, 

Too  bare  for  the  hungry  rat, 
Its  roof  was  thatched  with  ragged  grass, 

And  bald  enough  of  that; 
The  hole  that  served  for  casement 

Was  glazed  with  an  ancient  hat; 
And  the  ice  was  gently  thawing 

From  the  log  whereon  he  sat. 

Along  the  dreai'y  landscape 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro, 
The  trees  all  clad  in  icicles. 

The  streams  that  did  not  flow ; 
A  sudden  thought  flashed  o'er  him,  — 

A  dream  of  long  ago,  — 
He  smote  his  leathern  jerkin. 

And  murmured,  "  Even  so!" 

"  Come  hither,  God-be-Glorified, 

And  sit  upon  my  knee. 
Behold  the  dream  unfolding. 

Whereof  I  spake  to  thee 
By  the  winter's  hearth  in  Leyden 

And  on  the  stormy  sea; 
True  is  the  dream's  beginning,  — 

So  may  its  ending  be! 

♦'  I  saw  in  the  naked  forest 

Our  scattered  remnant  cast, 
A  screen  of  shivering  branches 
Between  them  and  the  blast; 
The  snuw  was  falling  round  them, 
17 


258  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS 

4  The  dying  fell  as  fast; 

I  looked  to  see  them  perish, 
When  lo,  the  vision  passed. 

"  Again  mine  eyes  were  opened,  — 

The  feeble  had  waxed  strong, 
The  babes  had  grown  to  sturdy  men, 

The  remnant  was  a  throng; 
By  shadowed  lake  and  winding  stream, 

And  all  the  shores  along, 
The  howling  demons  quaked  to  hear 

The  Christian's  godly  song. 

"  They  slept,  —  the  village  fathers,  — 

By  river,  lake,  and  shore. 
When  far  adown  the  steep  of  Time 

The  vision  rose  once  more; 
I  saw  along  the  winter  snow 

A  spectral  column  pour. 
And  high  above  their  broken  ranks 

A  tattered  flag  they  bore. 

"  Their  Leader  rode  before  them. 

Of  bearing  calm  and  high, 
The  light  of  Heaven's  own  kindling 

Throned  in  his  awful  eye, 
These  were  a  Nation's  champions 

Her  dread  appeal  to  try ; 
God  for  the  right!  I  faltered. 

And  lo,  the  train  passed  by. 

"  Once  more,  —  the  strife  is  ended, 
The  solemn  issue  tried, 
The  Lord  of  Hosts,  his  mighty  arm 
Has  helped  our  Israel's  side; 


THE  PILGRIM'S   VISION.  259 

Gray  stone  and  grassy  hillock 

Tell  where  our  martyrs  died, 
But  peaceful  smiles  the  harvest, 

And  stainless  flows  the  tide. 

"  A  crash,  —  as  when  some  swollen  cloud 

Cracks  o'er  the  tangled  trees! 
With  side  to  side,  and  spar  to  spar, 

Whose  smoking  decks  are  these? 
I  know  Saint  George's  blood-red  cross, 

Thou  Mistress  of  the  Seas,  — 
But  what  is  she,  whose  streaming  bars 

Roll  out  before  the  breeze  ? 

"  Ah,  well  her  iron  ribs  are  knit. 

Whose  thunders  strive  to  quell 
The  bellowing  throats,  the  blazing  lips. 

That  pealed  the  Armada's  knell  I 
The  mist  was  cleared,  a  wreath  of  stars 

Rose  o'er  the  crimsoned  swell, 
And,  wavering  from  its  haughty  peak. 

The* cross  of  England  fell! 

"  O  trembling  Faith  !  though  dark  the  morn, 

A  heavenly  torch  is  thine; 
While  feebler  races  melt  away. 

And  paler  orbs  decline. 
Still  shall  the  fiery  pillar's  ray 

Along  thy  pathway  shine. 
To  light  the  chosen  tribe  that  sought 

This  Western  Palestine! 


I  see  the  living  tide  roll  on; 

It  crowns  with  flaming  towers 
The  icy  capes  of  Labrador, 


I  260  BALLADS   AND  LYRICS. 

I 

\  The  Spaniard's  '  land  of  flowers  '  I 

i  It  streams  beyond  the  splintered  ridge 

That  parts  the  northern  showers; 
From  eastern  rock  to  sunset  wave 

\  The  continent  is  ours  !  " 

t 

He  ceased,  —  the  grim  old  soldier-saint, — 

Then  softly  bent  to  cheer 
The  pilgrim-child,  whose  wasting  face 

Was  meekly  turned  to  hear; 
And  dri'W  his  toil-worn  sleeve  across, 

To  brush  the  manly  tear 
From  cheeks  that  never  changed  in  woe, 
And  never  blanched  in  fear. 

The  weary  pilgrim  slumbers, 

His  resting-place  unknown; 
His  hands  were  crossed,  his  lids  were  closed, 

The  dust  was  o'er  him  strown; 
The  drifting  soil,  the  mouldering  leaf. 

Along  the  sod  were  blown; 
His  mound  has  melted  into  earth, 

His  memory  lives  alone. 

So  let  it  live  unfading. 

The  memory  of  the  dead, 
Long  as  the  pale  anemone 

Springs  where  their  tears  were  shed, 
Or,  raining  in  the  summer's  wind 

In  flakes  of  burning  red, 
The  wild  rose  sprinkles  with  its  leaves 

The  turf  where  once  they  bled  I 

Yea,  when  the  frowning  bulwarks 
That  guard  this  holy  strand 


PAUL  REVERE' S  RIDE.  261  j 

Have  sunk  beneath  the  traniplinj,  surge  i 

In  beds  of  sparkling  sand, 
While  in  the  waste  of  ocean 

One  hoary  rock  shall  stand, 
Be  this  its  latest  legend, 

Here  was  tlie  Pilgrim's  land!  f 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  { 


PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE. 

Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 

Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 

On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  Seventy-five; 

Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 

Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 

He  said  to  his  friend,  "  If  the  British  march 
By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 
Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 
Of  the  North  Church  tower  as  a  signal  light,  — 
One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea ; 
And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be. 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  IMiddlesex  village  and  farm, 
For  the  country-folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm." 

Then  he  said,  "  Good-night!  "  and  with  muffled  oar 

Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 

Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 

Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 

The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war; 

A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar 

Across  the  moon  like  a  prison  bar, 


■MUM"   I  fiswimuw 


262  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

And  a  huge  black  liulk,  that  Avas  magnified 
By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile,  his  friend,  through  alley  and  street, 
Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears, 
Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack  door, 
The  pound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers, 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore. 

Then  he  climbed  the  tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 

By  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 

To  the  belfry-chamber  overhead, 

And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 

On  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him  made 

Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade,  — 

By  the  trembling  ladder  steep  and  tall. 

To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall. 

Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 

A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town. 

And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churchyard,  lay  the  dead, 

In  their  night  encampment  on  the  hill. 

Wrapped  in  silence  so  deep  and  still 

That  he  could  hear,  like  a  sentinel's  tread. 

The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 

Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent. 

And  seeming  to  whisper,  "  All  is  well  I  " 

A  moment  only  he  feels  the  spell 

Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  and  the  secret  dread 

Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead; 

For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 

On  a  shadowy  something  far  away, 


"  A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street."    See  p.  263. 


PAUL   REVERE' S  RIDE.  263 

Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay,  — 
A  line  of  bhick  that  bends  and  floats 
On  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride, 
Booted  and  spurred,  with  a  heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul  Revere. 
Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side, 
Xow  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
Then,  impetuous,  stamped  the  earth, 
And  turned  and  tightened  his  saddle-girth  ; 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry-tower  of  the  Old  Xoith  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill. 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and  still. 
And  lo  !  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry's  height 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light  ! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns, 
But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns  ! 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 

A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark. 

And  beneath,  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing,  a  spark 

Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and  fleet  : 

That  was  all  !     And  yet,  through  the  gloom  and  the 

light. 
The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night; 
And  the  s[)ark  struck  out  by  that  stee<l.  in  his  flight. 
Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 

He  has  left  the  village  and  mounted  the  steep. 
And  beneath  him,  tranquil  and  broad  and  deep, 
Is  the  Mystic,  meeting  the  ocean  tides; 
And  under  the  alders,  that  skirt  its  e<lge, 


264  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Now  soft  on  the  sand,  now  loud  on  the  ledge, 
Is  heard  the  tramp  of  his  steed  as  he  rides. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock 

When  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  Medford  town. 

He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock, 

And  the  barking  of  the  fanner's  dog. 

And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river  fog, 

That  rises  after  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  village  clock 

When  he  galloped  into  Lexington. 

He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 

Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed. 

And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank  and  bare, 

Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare. 

As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 

At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock 

When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord  to«n. 

He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 

And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 

And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 

Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 

And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 

Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall, 

Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead. 

Pierced  by  a  Britisli  musket-ball. 

You  know  the  rest.     In  the  books  you  have  read, 
How  I  he  British  Regulars  fired  and  fled,  — 
How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball. 
From  behind  each  fence  and  farm-yard  wall. 
Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane. 


LEXINGTON.  265 

Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere ; 

And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of  alarm 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm,  — 

A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, 

A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door, 

And  a  word  that  shall  echo  forevermore  I 

For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 

Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 

In  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  and  need. 

The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 

The  hurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed. 

And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Revere. 

Hknry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


LEXINGTON. 


Slowly  the  mist  o'er  the  meadow  Avas  creeping, 
Bright  on  the  dewy  buds  glistened  the  sun, 
When  from  his  couch,  while  his  children  were  sleeping, 
Rose  the  bold  rebel  and  shouldered  his  gun. 

Waving  her  golden  veil 

Over  the  silent  dale. 
Blithe  looked  the  morning  on  cottage  and  spire  ; 

Hushed  was  his  parting  sigii. 

While  from  his  noble  eye 
Flashed  the  last  sparkle  of  liberty's  fire. 

On  the  smooth  green  where  the  fresh  leaf  is  springing, 
Calmly  the  first-born  of  glory  have  met ; 


266  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Hark  I  the  death-volley  around  them  is  ringing  ! 
Look!  with  their  life-blood  the  young  grass  is  wet  1 

Faint  is  the  feeble  breath, 

Murmuring  low  in  death, 
"  Tell  to  our  sons  how  their  fathers  have  died  ;  " 

Nerveless  the  iron  hand, 

Raised  for  its  native  land, 
Lies  by  the  weapon  that  gleams  at  its  side. 

Over  the  hillsides  the  wild  knell  is  tolling, 

From  their  far  hamlets  the  yeomanry  come; 

As  through  the  storm-clouds  the  thunder  burst  rolling 

Circles  the  beat  of  the  mustering  drum. 

Fast  on  the  soldier's  path 

Darken  the  waves  of  wrath, 
Long  have  they  gathered  and  loud  shall  they  fall; 

Red  glares  the  musket's  flash, 

Sharp  rings  the  rifle's  crash. 
Blazing  and  clanging  from  thicket  and  wall, 

Gayly  the  plume  of  the  horseman  was  dancing, 
Never  to  shadow  his  cold  brow  again ; 
Proudly  at  morning  the  war- steed  was  prancing, 
Reeking  and  panting  he  droops  on  the  rein; 

Pale  is  the  lip  of  scorn. 

Voiceless  the  trumpet  horn, 
Torn  is  the  silken-fringed  red  cross  on  high; 

Many  a  belted  breast 

Low  on  the  turf  shall  rest. 
Ere  the  dark  hunters  the  herd  have  passed  by. 

Snow-girdled  crags  where  the  hoarse  wind  is  raving, 
Rocks  where  the  weary  floods  murmur  and  wail, 
Wilds  where  the  fern  by  the  furrow  is  waving. 
Reeled  with  the  echoes  that  rode  on  the  gale; 


GRANDMOTHER'S   STORY.  267 

Far  as  the  tempest  thrills 

Over  the  darkened  hills, 
Far  as  the  sunshine  streams  over  the  plain, 

Roused  by  the  tyrant  band, 

Woke  all  the  mighty  land, 
Girded  for  battle,  from  mountain  to  main. 

Green  be  the  graves  where  her  martyrs  are  lying  I 
Shroudless  and  tombless  tliey  sunk  to  their  rest,  — 
While  o'er  their  ashes  the  starry  fold  flying 
Wraps  the  proud  eagle  they  roused  from  his  nest. 

Borne  on  her  Northern  pine, 

Long  o'er  the  foaming  brine 
Spread  her  broad  banner  to  storm  and  to  sun; 

Heaven  keep  her  ever  free, 

Wide  as  o'er  land  and  sea 
Floats  the  fair  emblem  her  heroes  have  won! 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


GRANDMOTHER'S    STORY    OF    BUNKER 
HILL   BATTLE. 

AS    SHE    SAW    IT    FROM    THE    BELFRY. 

1  IS  like  stirring  living  embers  when,  at  eighty,  one 

remembt-rs 
All  the  achings  and  the  quakings  of  "  the  times  that 

tried  men's  souls;  " 
When  I  talk  of   W/iig  and  Tori/,  when  I  tell  the  Rebel 

story. 
To  you  the  words  are  ashe^,  but  to  me  they  're  burning 

coals. 


268  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

I  had  heard  the  muskets'  rattle  of  the  April  running 

battle; 
Lord  Percy's  hunted  soldiers,  I  can  see  their  red  coats 

still ; 
But  a  deadly  cliill  comes  o'er  me,  as  the  day  looms  up 

before  me. 
When  a  thousand  men  lay  bleeding  on   the  slopes  of 

Bunker's  Hill. 

'T  was  a   peaceful  summer's  morning,  when   the   first 

thing  gave  us  warning 
Was  the  booming  of  the  cannon  from  the  river  and  the 

shore. 
"  Child,"  says  grandma,  "  what  's  the  matter,  what  is 

all  this  noise  and  clatter? 
Have  those  scalping  Indian  devils  come  to  murder  us 

once  more?  " 

Poor  old  soul!  my  sides  wore  shaking  in  the  midst  of 

all  my  quaking. 
To  hear  her  talk  of  Indians  when  the  guns  began  to 

roar  : 
She  had    seen  the  burning  village,  and    the   slaughter 

and  the  pillage. 
When  the  Mohawks  killed  her  father  with  their  bullets 

through  his  door. 

Then  I  said,  "  Now,  dear  old  granny,  don't  you  fret 

and  worry  any, 
For  I  '11  soon  come  back  and  tell  you  whether  this  is 

work  or  play; 
There  can't  be  mischief  in   it,  so  I  won't  be   gone  a 

minute  "  — 
For  a  minute  then  I  started.     I  was  gone  the  livelong 

day. 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  269 

N^o  time  iov  bodice-lacing  or  for  looking-glass  grimac- 
ing, 

Down  my  hair  went  as  I  hurried,  tumbling  half-way  to 
my  heels; 

God  forbid  your  ever  knowing,  when  there's  blood 
around  her  flowing. 

How  the  lonely,  helpless  daughter  of  a  quiet  household 
feels! 

In  the   street  I  heard  a  thumping,  and  I  knew  it  was 

the  stumping 
Of  the  Corporal,  our  old  neighbor,  on  that  wooden  leg 

he  wore, 
With    a  knot  of    women  round   him,  —  it  was  lucky  I 

hail  found  him, 
So  I  followed  with  the  others,  and  the  Corporal  marched 

before. 

They  were  making  for  the  steeple,  —  the  old  soldier 
and  his  people; 

The  pigeons  circled  round  us  as  we  climlicd  the  creak- 
ing stair. 

Just  across  the  narrow  river —  O,  so  close  it  made  me 
shiver ! — 

Stood  a  fortress  on  the  hill-top  that  but  yesterday  was 
bare. 

Not  slow  our  eyes  to  find  it;  well  we  knew  who  stood 
behind  it, 

Though  the  earthwork  hid  them  from  us,  and  the  stub- 
born walls  were  dumb: 

Here  were  sister,  wife,  and  mother,  looking  wild  upon 
each  other. 

And  their  lips  were  white  with  terror  as  they  said, 
The  hour  has  come  I 


270  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

The    morning    slowly   wasted,    not  a   morsel     bad   we 

tasted, 
And  our  heads  were  almost  splitting  with  the  cannon's 

deafening  thrill, 
When  a  figure  tall  and  stately  round  the  rampart  strode 

sedately, 
It  was  Prescott,  one  since  told  me  ;  he  commanded  on 

the  hill. 

Every  woman's    heart  grew  bigger  when  we  saw  his 

manly  figure, 
With  the   banyan   buckled   round   it,    standing  up  so 

straight  and  tall; 
Like  a  gentleman  of  leisure   who  is   strolling  out  for 

pleasure. 
Through  the  storm  of  shells  and  cannon-shot  he  walked 

around  the  wall. 

At  eleven  the  streets  were  swarming,  for  the  red-coats' 
ranks  were  forming, 

At  noon  in  marching  order  they  were  moving  to  the 
piers ; 

How  the  bayonets  gleamed  and  glistened,  as  we  looked 
far  down  and  listened 

To  the  trampling  and  the  drum-beat  of  the  belted  gren- 
adiers! 

At  length  the  men  have  started,  with  a  cheer  (it  seemed 

faint-hearted), 
.n  their  scarlet  regimentals,  with  their  knapsacks  on 

their  backs. 
And  the  reddening,  rippling  water,  as  after  a  sea-fight's 

slaughter. 
Round  the  barges  gliding  onward  blushed  like  blood 

alon<r  their  tracks. 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  271 

So  they  crossed  to  the  other  border,  and  again  they 
formed  in  order  ; 

And  the  boats  came  back  for  soldiers,  came  for  sol- 
diers, soldiers  still  : 

The  time  seemed  everlasting  to  us  women  faint  and 
fasting,  — 

At  last  they  're  moving,  marching,  marching  proudly 
up  the  hill. 

We  can  see  the  bright  steel  glancing  all  along  the  lines 

advancing; 
Now  the  front  rank  fires  a  volley,  —  they  have  thrown 

away  their  shot; 
For  behind  their  earthwork  lying,  all  the  balls  above 

them  flying, 
Our  people  need  not  hurry,  so  they  wait  and  answer 

not. 

Then  the  Corporal,  our  old  cripple   (he  would  swear 

sometimes  and  tipple) ,  — 
He  had  heard  tlie  bullets  whistle  (in  the  old  French 

war)  before,  — 
Calls  out  in  words  of  jeering,  just  as  if  they  all  were 

hearing,  — 
And  his  wooden  leg  thumps  fiercely  on  the  dusty  belfry 

floor: — 

"  O!    fire  away,  ye  villains,  and  earn  King  George's 

shillin's. 
But   ye  '11   waste    a   ton    of   powder   afore   a   '  rebel  ' 

falls; 
You  may  bang  the  dirt  and  welcome,  they  're  as  safe 

as  Dan'l  Malcolm 
Ten  foot  beneath  the  gravestone  that  you  've  splintered 

with  your  balls  I ' ' 


4- 


272  BALLADS  AND  LYPdCS. 

In  the  hush  of  expectation,  in  the  awe  and  trepida- 
tion 

Of  tlie  dread  approaching  moment,  we  are  well-nigh 
breathless  all; 

Though  the  rotten  bars  are  failing  on  the  rickety  bel- 
fi-y  railing, 

We  are  crowding  up  against  them  like  the  waves 
against  a  wall. 

Just  a  glimpse  (the  air  is  clearer),  they  are  nearer,  — 

nearer,  —  nearer, 
When    a   flash  —  a   curling    smoke-wreath  —  then    a 

crash  —  the  steeple  shakes  — 
The   deadly  truce   is    ended;   the  tempest's  shroud  is 

rended  ; 
Like  a  morning  mist  it  gathered,  like  a  thunder-cloud 

it  breaks! 

O  the  sight  our  eyes  discover  as  the  blue-black  smoke 

blows  over  ! 
The  red-coats  stretched  in  windrows  as  a  mower  rakes 

his  hay; 
Here  a  scarlet  heap  is  lying,  there  a  headlong  crowd 

is  flying 
Like   a  billow  that  has  broken   and  is   shivered  into 

spray. 

Then  we  cried,    "  The   troops   are   louted!    they  are 

beat  —  it  can't  be  doubted  ! 
God  be  thanked,  the  fight  is  over  I  "  —  Ah!  the  grim 

old  soldier's  smile ! 
"  Tell   us,  tell    us   why    you    look    so?  "     (we    could 

hardly  speak,  we  shook  so),  — 
Are   they   beaten  ?     Are   they  beaten  ?     Ark    they 

beaten?  "  —  "  Wait  awhile." 


GRANDMOTHERS  STORY.  27 S 

0  the   trembling  and  the  terror!  for  too  soon  we  saw 

our  error: 
They  are  baffled,  not  defeated;  we  have  driven  them 

baek  in  vain; 
And  the  columns  that  were  scattered,  round  the  colors 

that  were  tattered. 
Toward    the    sullen    silent   fortress    turn    their  belted 

breasts  again. 

All  at  once,  as  we  are  gazing,  lo,  the  roofs  of  Charles- 
town  blazing  ! 

They  have  fired  the  harmless  village  ;  in  an  hour  it 
will  be  down ! 

The  Lord  in  heaven  confound  them,  rain  his  fire  and 
brimstone  round  them,  — 

The  robbing,  murdering  red-coats,  that  would  burn  a 
peaceful  town! 

They  are  marching,  stern  and  solemn;  we  can  see  each 

massive  column 
As  they  near  the  naked  earth-mound  with  the  slanting 

walls  so  steep. 
Have  our  soldiers  got  faint-hearted,  and  in  noiseless 

haste  departed? 
Are  they  panic-struck  and  helpless  ?     Are  they  palsied 

or  asleep  ? 

Now!  the  walls  they're  almost  under!  scarce  a  rod  the 
foes  asunder! 

Not  a  firelock  flashed  against  them  !  up  the  earthwork 
they  will  swarm  ! 

But  the  words  have  scarce  been  spoken,  when  the  omi- 
nous calm  is  broken, 

And  a  bellowing  crash  has  emptied  all  the  vengeance 
of  the  storm  1 
18 


274  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

So  again,  with  murderous  slaughter,  pelted  backwards 

to  the  water, 
Fly  Pigot's  running  heroes  and  the  frightened  braves 

of  Howe; 
And  we  shout,  "  At  last  they're  done  for,  it's  their 

barges  they  have  run  for: 
They  are  beaten,  beaten,  beaten;  and  the  battle  's  over 

now!  " 

And  we  looked,  poor  timid  creatures,  on  the  rough  old 

soldier's  features. 
Our  lips  afraid  to  question,  but  he  knew  what  we  would 

ask: 
"  Not   sure,"  he  said,    "  keep  quiet,  — once  more,  I 

guess,  they  '11  try  it,  — 
Here's  damnation    to  the    cut-throats!"  —   then   he 

handed  me  his  flask, 

Saying,  "Gal,  you're  looking  shaky;  have  a  drop  of 

old  Jamaiky ; 
I  'm  afeared  there  '11  be  more  trouble  afore  the  job  is 

done;  " 
So  I  took  onetScorching  swallow ;  dreadful  faint  I  felt, 

and  hollow. 
Standing  there  from  early  morning  when  the  firing  was 

begun. 

All  through  those  hours  of  trial  I  had  watched  a  calm 

clock  dial. 
As   the   hands  kept  creeping,  creeping,  —  they   were 

creeping  round  to  four, 
When  the  old  man  said,  "  They  're  forming  with  their 

bagonets  fixed  for  storming. 
It 's  the  death -grip  that 's  a  coming,  —  they  will  try  the 

works  once  more." 


GRANDMOTHERS  STORY.  275 

With  brazen  trumpets  blaring,  the  flames  behind  them 
glaring, 

The  deadly  wall  before  them,  in  close  array  they 
come; 

Still  onward,  upward  toiling,  like  a  dragon's  fold  un- 
coiling, — 

Like  the  rattlesnake's  shrill  warning  the  re\erberating 
drum  I 

Over  heaps  all  torn  and  gory  —  shall  I  tell  the  fearful 
story, 

How  they  surged  above  the  breastwork,  as  a  sea  breaks 
over  a  deck; 

How,  driven,  yet  scarce  defeated,  our  worn-out  men 
retreated. 

With  their  powder  horns  all  emptied,  like  the  swim- 
mers from  a  wreck  ? 

It  has  all  been  told  and  painted;  as  for  mo,  they  say  I 

fainted. 
And  the  wooden-legged  old  Corjjoral  stumped  with  me 

down  the  stair: 
When    I   w^oke   from   dreams   affrighted    the    evening 

lamps  were  lighted,  — 
On  the  floor  a  youth  was  lying  ;  his   bleeding  breast 

was  bare. 

And  I  hoard  through  all  the  flurry,  "  Send  fur  Warren! 

hurry!  hurry! 
Tell  liim  here  's  a  soldier  bleeding,  and  he  'II  come  and 

dress  liis  wound  I  " 
Ah,  we  knew  not  till  the  morrow  told  its  lulo  of  death 

and  sorrow, 
How  the  starlight  foiuid  him  stiffened  on  the  dark  and 

bloody  ground. 


276  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Who  the  youth  was,  what  his   name  was,   where  the 

phicc  from  which  lie  came  was, 
Who  liad  brought  him  from  the  battle,  and  had  left 

him  at  our  door. 
He  could  not   speak  to  tell  us;  but  'twas  one  of  our 

brave  fellows. 
As  the  homespun  plainly  showed  us  which  the  dying 

soldier  wore. 

For  they  all  thought  he  was  dying,  as  they  gathered 

round  him  crying. 
And  they   said,    "  O,   how  they'll    miss  him!"  and, 

"  What  will  his  mother  do?  " 
Then  his  eyelids  just  unclosing  like  a  child's  that  has 

been  dozing, 
He  faintly  murmured,   "  Mother!  "  —  and  —  I  saw  his 

eyes  were  blue. 

"  Why,  grandma,    how  you  're  winking!"  —  Ah,  my 

J   child,  it  sets  me  thinking 
Of  a  story  not  like  this  one.     Well,  he  somehow  lived 

along; 
So  we  came  to  know  each  other,  and  I  nursed  him  like 

a  —  mother. 
Till  at  last  he  stood  before  me,  tall,  and  rosy-cheeked, 

and  strong. 

And  we   sometimes  walked   together  in   the  pleasant 

summer  weather  — 
"  Please  to  tell  us  what  his  name  was?  "  —  Just  your 

own,  my  little  dear,  — 
There's   his  picture    Copley  painted:    we    became    so 

well  acquainted, 
That  —  in   short,  that's  why  I'm   grandma,  and  you 

children  all  are  here! 

Oliver  Wendkll  Holmes. 


HYMN  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS.    277 


HYMN    OF   THE    MORAVIAN    NUNS    OF 
BETHLEHEM, 

AT  THE  CONSECRATION  OF  PULASKl'S  BANNER. 

AVhen  the  dying  flamu  (;f  day 

Through  the  chancel  shot  its  ray, 

Far  the  glimmering  tapers  shod 

Faint  light  on  the  cowled  head ; 

And  the  censer  burning  swung, 

Where,  before  the  altar,  hung 

The  crimson  banner,  that  with  prayer 

Had  been  consecrated  there. 

And  the  nuns'  sweet  hymn  was  heard  the  while, 

Sung  low,  in  the  dim,  mysterious  aisle. 

"  Take  thy  banner!     May  it  wave 
Proudly  o'er  the  good  and  brave; 
When  the  battle's  distant  wail 
Breaks  the  Sabbath  of  our  vale, 
When  the  clarion's  music  thrills 
To  the  hearts  of  these  lone  hills, 
When  tlie  spear  in  conflict  shakes, 
And  the  strong  lance  shivering  breaks. 

"  Take  thy  banner!  and,  beneath 
The  battle-cloud's  encircling  wreath, 
(niard  it,  till  our  homes  are  free! 
Guard  it!  God  will  prosper  thee! 
In  the  dark  and  trying  hour. 
In  the  breaking  forth  of  power. 
In  the  rush  of  steeds  and  men. 
His  right  hand  will  shield  thee  then. 


278  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

"  Take  thy  banner!     But  when  night 
Closes  round  the  ghastly  fight, 
If  the  vanquished  warrior  bow, 
Spare  him!     By  our  holy  vow, 
By  our  prayers  and  many  tears, 
By  the  mercy  that  endears, 
Spare  him !  he  our  love  hath  shared ! 
Spare  him!  as  tliou  wouldst  be  spared! 

"  Take  thy  banner!  and  if  e'er 
Thou  shouldst  press  the  soldier's  bier, 
And  the  muffled  drum  should  beat 
To  the  tread  of  mournful  feet, 
Then  this  crimson  flag  shall  be 
Martial  cloak  and  shroud  for  thee." 

The  warrior  took  that  banner  proud, 
And  it  was  his  martial  cloak  and  shroud ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


INCIDENT   OF   THE   FRENCH   CAMP. 

I. 
You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon; 

A  mile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound.  Napoleon  ^ 

Stood  on  our  storming-day; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how. 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind. 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 


INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH   CAMP.    279 

II. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,  "  My  plans, 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall. 
Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall,"  — 
Out-'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

III. 
Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy: 

You  hardly  could  suspect  — 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through) 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

IV. 
"  Well,"  cried  he,  "  Emperor,  by  God's  grace 
We  've  got  you  Ratisbon! 
The  mai'shal  's  in  the  market-place. 

And  you  '11  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him!  "   The  chief's  eye  flashed;    his  plans 
Soared  up  again  like  fire. 

V. 

The  chief's  eye  flashed;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eai-let  breatlies  : 


280  BALLADS  AND  LYIUCS. 

"You  're  wounded!"     "  Nay,"  the  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said: 
"  I  'm  killed,  Sire!  "     And  his  chief  beside, 

Smiling,  the  boy  fell  dead. 

Robert  Browning. 


THE    CHARGE    OF    THE    LIGHT    BRIGADE.1 


Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward. 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade! 
Charge  for  the  guns!  "  he  said: 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

II. 

"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade!  " 
Was  there  a  man  dismay 'd? 
Not  tho'  the  soldiers  knew 

Some  one  had  blunder'd; 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply. 
Theirs  not  to  reason  wh}', 

1  October  28,  1854,  the  battle  of  Balaklava,  in  the  Crimea,  was 
fought  between  the  Russian  and  the  allied  French  and  English 
forces.  By  a  misconception  of  Lord  Raglau"s  order  the  light 
cavalry,  six  hundred  and  seventy  strong,  under  Lord  Cardigan, 
charged  the  main  body  of  the  Russian  armj'of  twelve  thousand 
Tliey  inflicted  great  loss  upon  the  enemy,  but  only  one  hundred 
md  ninety-eight  men  returned  from  the  charge. 


CHARGE   OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE.    281 

Theirs  but  to  do  and  die: 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

iir. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volley 'd  and  thunder'd; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


Flash'd  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flash'd  as  they  turn'd  in  air. 
Sabring  the  gunners  there. 

Charging  an  army,  while 
All  the  world  wonder'd: 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke 
Right  thro'  the  line  they  broke; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reel'd  from  the  sabre- stroke 
Shatter'd  and  sunder'd. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not. 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

V. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 


282  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

While  liorse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  thro'  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 
Left  of  six  hundred. 


AVhen  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
O  the  wild  chai-ge  they  made! 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made ! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred! 

Alfred   Tennyson.* 


VICTOR   GALBRAITH. 

Under  the  walls  of  Monterey  ^ 
At  daybreak  the  bugles  began  to  play, 
Victor  Galbraithl 

1  Alfred  Tennyson,  the  laureate  of  England,  and,  with  the 
exception  of  Robert  Browning,  the  greatest  of  living  English 
poets,  was  born  in  1810  at  Somersby,  Lincolnshire.  He  is  of  an 
ancient  family  and  was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge, 
and  published  his  first  poems  while  still  in  college.  He  was 
made  poet-laureate  in  1850,  on  the  death  of  Wordsworth.  He 
has  led  a  retired  life  at  his  home  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  and  has 
\sTitten  and  published  many  poems.  His  longest  and  most  im- 
portant poems  are  the  Idyls  of  the  King  and  In  Memoriam,  and 
his  Ij-rics  and  songs  are  many  of  them  of  great  beauty. 

2  This  refers  to  the  period  of  the  war  between  Mexico  and  the 
United  States.  The  battle  of  Monterey  was  fought  September 
24,  1846. 


VICTOR   GALBRAITH.  283 

In  the  mist  of  the  morning  damp  and  gray, 
These  were  the  words  they  seemed  to  say : 
"  Come  forth  to  thy  death, 
Victor  Galhraith !  " 

Forth  he  came,  with  a  martial  tread; 
Firm  was  his  step,  erect  his  liead; 

Victor  Galbraith, 
He  who  so  well  the  bugle  played, 
Could  not  mistake  the  words  it  said: 
"  Come  forth  to  thy  death, 

Victor  Galbraith  I " 

He  looked  at  the  earth,  he  looked  at  the  sky, 
He  looked  at  the  files  of  musketry, 

Victor  Galbraith ! 
And  he  said,  with  a  steady  voice  and  eye, 
"  Take  good  aim;  I  am  ready  to  die!  " 

Thus  challenges  death 

Victor  Galbraith. 

Twelve  fiery  tongues  flashed  straight  and  red, 
Six  leaden  balls  on  their  errand  sped; 

Victor  Galbraith 
Falls  fo  the  ground,  but  he  is  not  dead; 
His  name  was  not  stamped  on  those  balls  of  lead, 

And  they  only  scath 

Victor  Galbraith. 

Three  balls  are  in  his  breast  and  brain, 
But  he  rises  out  of  the  dust  again, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! 
The  water  he  drinks  has  a  bloody  stain  ; 
'•  O  kill  me,  and  put  me  out  of  my  pain!  " 

In  his  agony  prayeth 

Victor  Galbraith. 


284  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Forth  dart  once  more  those  tongues  of  flame, 
And  the  bngler  has  died  a  death  of  shame, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! 
His  soul  has  gone  back  to  whence  it  came, 
And  no  one  answers  to  the  name, 
When  the  sergeant  saith, 
"  Victor  Galbi-aith  !  " 

Under  the  walls  of  Monterey 

By  night  a  bugle  is  heard  to  play, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! 
Through  the  mist  of  the  valley  damp  and  gray, 
The  sentinels  hear  the  sound,  and  say, 
"  That  is  the  wraith 

Of  Victor  Galbraith!" 

Heney  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE    SOLDIER   FROM  BINGEN. 

A  SOLDIER  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers; 
There  was  lack  of  woman's  nursing,  there  was  dearth 

of  woman's  tears; 
But  a  comrade  stood  beside  him,  while  the  life-blood 

ebbed  away. 
And  bent  with  pitying  glance  to  hear  each  word  he 

had  to  say. 
The  dying  soldier  faltered,  as  he  took  that  comrade's 

hand. 
And  he  said  :  "I  never  more  shall  see  my  own  —  my 

native  land  ! 


THE  SOLDIER   FROM  DINGEN.        285 

Take  a  message  and  a  token  to  the  distant  friends  of 

mine, 
For  I  was  born  at  Bingi-n  —  at  Bingon  on  tlie  Rhine  ! 

"  Tell  my  brothers  and  companions,  when  they  meet 

and  crowd  around, 
To  hear  my  mournful  story,  in  the  pleasant  vineyard 

ground. 
That  we  fought  the  battle  bravely,  and  when  the  day 

was  done, 
Full  many  a  corse  lay  ghastly  pale,  beneath  the  setting 

sun; 
And  midst  the  dead  and  dying  ^vere  some  grown  old  in 

wars, 
The  death-wound  on   their  gallant  breasts,  —  the  last 

of  many  scars  ! 
But    some  were   young,   and    suddenly   beheld    Life's 

morn  decline,  — 
And  one  had  come  from  Bingen  —  fair  Binijen  on  the 

Rhine  ! 

"  Tell  my  mother  that  her  other  sons  shall  comfort  her 

old  age, 
For  I  was  still  a  truant  bird,  that  thought  his  home  a 

cage ; 
For  my  father  was  a  soldier,  and,  even  when  a  child, 
My  heart    leaped   forth    to  hear   him  tell  of  struggles 

fierce  and  wild  ; 
And  when   he   died,  and   left  us  to  divide  his  scanty 

hoard, 
[   let   them   take  whatc'er    they   wouhl,    but   kept  my 

father's  sword  ! 
And  with  boyish  love  I  hung  it  where  the  bright  light 

used  to  shine, 
On  tlie  cottage  wall  at   Bingen  —  calm  Bingen  on   iho 

Rhine! 


286  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

*'  Tell  my  sister  not  to  weep  for  me,  and  sob  with 
drooping  head, 

When  the  troops  come  marching  home  again,  with 
glad  and  gallant  tread; 

But  to  look  upon  them  proudly,  with  a  calm  and  stead- 
fast eye, 

For  her  brother  was  a  soldier,  too,  and  not  afraid  to 
die  ! 

And  if  a  comrade  seek  her  love,  I  ask  her  in  my  name 

To  listen  to  him  kindly,  without  regret  and  shame  ; 

And  to  hang  the  old  sword  in  its  place  (my  father's 
sword  and  mine), 

For  the  honor  of  old  Bingen  —  dear  Bingen  on  the 
Rhine  ! 

"  There  's  another,  —  not  a  sister,  —  in  happy  days 
.gone  by. 

You  'd  have  known  her  by  the  merriment  that  spar- 
kled in  her  eye  ; 

Too  innocent  for  coquetry,  too  fond  for  idle  scorn- 
ing, — 

0  !  friend,  I  fear  the  lightest  heart  makes  sometimes 

heaviest  mourning  ! 
Tell  her  the  last  night  of  my  life — for  ere  the  morn 

be  I'isen, 
My   body    will   be    out   of   pain,    my   soul   be   out   of 

prison  — 

1  dreamed  I  stood  with  her,  and  saw  the  yellow  sim 

light  shine 
On  the  vine-clad  hills  of  Bingen  —  fair  Bingen  on  the 
Rhine  ! 

"  I  saw  the  blue  Rhine  sweep  along;  I  heard,  or  seemed 

to  hear, 
The  German  songs  we  used  to  sing,  in  chorus  swee* 

and  clear  ; 


THE  SOLDIER  FROM   BIN  GEN.        287 

And  down  the  pleasant  river,  and  up  the  slanting  hill, 
The  echoing  chorus  sounded,  through  the  evening  calm 

and  still ; 
And  her   glad   blue  eyes  were  on  me,  as  we  passed, 

with  fiiendly  talk, 
Down  many  a  path  beloved  of  yore,  and  well  remem- 
bered walk  ; 
And  her  little  hand  lay  lightly,  confidingly,  in  mine,  — 
But  we  '11  meet  no  more  at  Bingen  —  loved  Bingen  on 
the  Rhine!" 

His  trembling  voice  grew  faint  and  hoarse,  his  gasp 

was  childish  weak, 
His  eyes  put  on  a  dying  look,  — he  sighed,  and  ceased 

to  speak; 
His  comrade  bent  to  lift  him,  but  the  spark  of  life  had 

fled, — 
The  soldier  of  the  Legion  in  a  foreign  land  was  dead! 
And   the   soft  moon   rose  up  slowly,  and  calmly  she 

looked  down 
On  the  red  sand  of  the  battle-field,  with  bloody  corses 

strown ! 
Yes,  calmly   on    that    dreadful    scene   her   pale    light 

seemed  to  shine. 
As  it  shone  on  distant   Bingen  —  fair  Bingen  on  the 

Rhine! 

.  Caroline  E.  S.  Norton. ^ 

1  Caroline  Elizabeth  Sarah  Nohton,  granddaughter  of 
Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  was  born  in  1808,  and  married  in 
1827  to  the  Hon.  George  Chappie  Norton,  from  whom  she  was 
divorced  in  1836.  Late  in  life  she  made  a  second  marriage  with 
Sir  William  Stirling  Maxwell.  She  died  in  1878.  She  was  a 
woman  of  great  beauty,  very  accomplished,  and  possessed  brill- 
iant talents.     She  wrote  much  both  in  prose  and  in  verse. 


288  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


THE   OLD  CLOCK    ON  .THE    STAIRS. 

Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  country-seat. 
Across  its  antique  portico 
Tall  poplar- trees  their  shadows  throw; 
And  from  its  station  in  the  hall 
An  ancient  time-piece  says  to  all,  — 
"  Forever  —  never! 
Never  —  forever !  ' ' 

Half-way  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 
And  points  and  beckons  with  its  hands 
From  its  case  of  massive  oak, 
Like  a  monk,  who,  under  his  cloak, 
Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas  I 
With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass,  — 
' '  Forever  —  never ! 
Never  —  forever!  " 

By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light ; 
But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night, 
Distinct  as  a  passing  footstep's  fall, 
It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall, 
Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor, 
And  seems  to  say,  at  each  chamber-door,  — 
"  Forever  —  never! 
Never  —  forever ! ' ' 

Through  days  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth, 
Through  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth, 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
or  chano-eful  time,  unchanged  it  has  stood. 


THE   OLD   CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS.     289 

And  as  if,  like  God,  it  all  tilings  saw, 
It  calmly  repeats  those  words  of  awe,  — 
' '  Forever  —  never ! 
Never  —  forever !  ' ' 

In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  Hospitality; 
His  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roared; 
The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board; 
But,  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast, 
That  warning  timepiece  never  ceased,  — 
"  Forever —  never! 
Never  —  forever!  " 

There  groups  of  merry  children  played  ; 
There  youths  and  maidens  dreaming  strayed; 
O  precious  hours!  O  golden  prime. 
And  affluence  of  love  and  time! 
Even  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold, 
Those  hours  the  ancient  timepiece  told,  — 
"Forever  —  never! 
Never  —  forever !  " 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white. 
The  bride  came  forth  on  her  wedding-night; 
There,  in  that  silent  room  below, 
The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow  ; 
And  in  the  husli  that  followed  the  prayer. 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair,  — 
' '  Forever  —  never ! 
Never  —  forever ! ' ' 

All  are  scattered  now,  and  fled  ; 
Some  are  married,  some  are  dead; 
And  when  I  ask,  with  tlirohs  of  pain, 
19 


4- 


290  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

"  Ah!  when  shall  they  all  meet  again?" 
As  in  the  days  long  since  gone  bj, 
The  ancient  timepiece  makes  reply,  — 
' '  Forever  —  never ! 
Never  —  f orerer ! ' ' 

Never  here,  forever  there, 
Where  all  parting,  pain,  and  care, 
And  death,  and  time  shall  disappear,  — 
Forever  there,  but  never  here! 
The  horologe  of  Eternity 
Sayeth  this  incessantly,  — 
"  Forever  —  never ! 
Never  —  forever  I ' ' 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE    DEACON'S     MASTERPIECE;    OR,    THE 
WONDERFUL  "  ONE-HOSS  SHAY." 

A    LOGICAL    STORY. 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  sliay. 

That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 

It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day. 

And  then,  of  a  sudden,  it  —  ah,  but  stay, 

I  '11  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay. 

Scaring  the  parson  into  fits. 

Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits,  — 

Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five. 
Georgius  Secundus  was  then  alive,  — 
Snuffv  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 


THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE.        291 

That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss  shay. 

Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you  what, 

There  is  always  someiohere  a  weakest  spot,  — 

In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill, 

In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 

In  screw,  bolt,  thorougbbrace,  lurking  still. 

Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will. 

Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without. 

And  that 's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt. 

That  a  chaise  breaks  doivn,  but  does  n't  tvear  out. 

But  the  Deacon  swore  (as  Deacons  do. 
With  an  "I  dew  vuui,"  or  an  "  I  tell  yeou  ") 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
'n'  the  keounty  'n'  all  the  kentry  raoun'  ; 
It  should  be  so  built  that  it  couldn''  break  daown  : 
''  Fur,"  said  the  Deacon,  "  't  's  mighty  plain 
Thut  the  weakes'  place  mus'  stan'  the  strain ; 
'n'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jest 
T'  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest." 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 

Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 

That  could  n't  be  split  nor  bent  nor  broke,  — 

That  was  for  spokes  and  floor  and  sills  ; 

He  sent  for  lancewood  to  make  the  thills; 

The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straiglitest  trees, 

The  panels  of  white-wood,  that  cuts  like  cheese, 


292  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these; 
The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  "  Settler's  ellum,"  — 
Last  of  its  timber,  —  they  could  n't  sell  'em, 
Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips. 
And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips, 
Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips; 
Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw, 
Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too. 
Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue; 
Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide; 
Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 
Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 
That  was  the  way  he  "  put  her  through."  — 
■'  There!  "  said  the  Deacon,  "  naow  she  'II  dew!  " 

Do!  I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 

She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less  ! 

Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray, 

Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away. 

Children  and  grandchildren  —  where  were  they? 

But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay 

As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day ! 

Eighteen  hundred;  —  it  came  and  found 
The  Deacon's  masterpiece  strong  and  sound. 
Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten;  — 
'  Hahnsum  kerridge  "  they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came;  — 
Running  as  usual;  much  the  same. 
Thirty  nnd  forty  at  last  arrive, 
And  then  come  fifty,  and  Fifty-Five. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 


I'here,"  said  the  Deacnn,  "  naow  she  11  dew."    See  p.  292. 


THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE.       29;i 

In  fact,  thei'e  's  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth, 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large; 

Take  it.  —  You  're  welcome.  —  No  extra  charge.) 

First  of  November,  —  the  Earthquake-day, — 

There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss  shay, 

A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay, 

But  nothing  local,  as  one  may  say. 

There  could  n't  be,  —  for  the  Deacon's  art 

Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 

That  there  was  n't  a  chance  for  one  to  start. 

For  the  wheels  wore  just  as  strong  as  the  thills, 

And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills, 

And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 

And  the  whipple-ti'ee  neither  less  nor  more, 

And  the  back-crossbar  as  strong  as  the  fore, 

And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 

And  yet,  as  a  ichole,  it  is  past  a  doubt 

In  another  hour  it  will  be  icorn  out  ! 

First  of  November,  'Fifty-five! 
This'morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 
Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way! 
Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 
Iluddup!  "  said  the  parson.  —  Off  went  they. 
The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday's  text,  — 
Jlail  got  io  fifthly,  and  stopped  perplexed 
At  what  the  —  Moses  —  was  coming  next. 
All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, 
Close  by  the  meet'n'-house  on  tlu'  hill. 
—  First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 
Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill,  — 
And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rork, 


,«.« 


294 


BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


At  half  past  nine  by  the  meefn'-house  clock,  — 
Just  the  hour  of  the  earthquake  shock ! 
—  A\hat  do  you  think  the  parsoA  found, 
When  he  got  up  and  stared  around  ? 
The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  mound. 
As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground! 
You  see,  of  course,  if  you  're  not  a  dunce, 
How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once,  — 
All  at  once,  and  nothing  first,  — 
Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
Logic  is  logic.     That 's  all  I  say. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


VALENTINE. 


rO     THE     HON.    MARY    C.    STANHOPE    (DAUGHTER    OF 
LORD    AND    LADY   MAHON). 

Hail,  day  of  Music,  day  of  Love, 
On  earth  below,  in  air  above. 
In  air  the  turtle  fondly  moans, 
The  linnet  pipes  in  joyous  tones; 
On  earth  the  postman  toils  along, 
Bent  double  by  huge  bales  of  song, 
W^here,  rich  with  many  a  gorgeous  die. 
Blazes  all  Cupid's  heraldry,  — 
Myrtles  and  roses,  doves  and  sparrows, 
Love-knots  and  altars,  lamps  and  arrows. 
What  nymph  without  wild  hopes  and  fears 
The  double  rap  this  morning  hears  ? 
Unnumbered  lasses,  youug  and  fair, 


VALENTINE.  295 

From  Bethnal  Green  to  Belgrave  Square, 

With  cheeks  high  flushed,  and  hearts  loud  beating, 

Await  the  tender  annual  greeting. 

The  loveliest  lass  of  all  is  mine,  — 

Good  morrow  to  my  Valentine  ! 

Good  morrow,  gentle  Child!  and  then 

Again  good  morrow,  and  again, 

Good  morrow  following  still  good  morrow, 

Without  one  cloud  of  strife  or  sorrow. 

And  when  the  God  to  whom  we  pay 

In  jest  our  homages  to-day 

Shall  come  to  claim,  no  more  in  jest, 

His  rightful  empire  o'er  thy  breast. 

Benignant  may  his  aspect  be, 

His  yoke  the  truest  liberty: 

And  if  a  tear  his  power  confess. 

Be  it  a  tear  of  happiness. 

It  shall  be  so.     The  Muse  displays 

The  future  to  her  votary's  gaze  ; 

Prophetic  rage  my  bosom  swells  — 

I  taste  the  cake  —  I  hear  the  bells! 

From  Conduit  Street  the  close  array 

Of  chariots  barricades  the  way 

To  where  I  see,  with  outstretched  hand, 

Majestic,  thy  great  kinsman  stand, ^ 

And  half  unbend  his  brow  of  pride, 

As  welcoming  so  fair  a  bride. 

Gay  favors,  thick  as  flakes  of  snow, 

Brigliten  St.  George's  portico: 

Within  I  see  the  chancel's  pale. 

The  orange  flowers,  the  Brussels  veil. 

The  page  on  which  those  fingers  white, 

Still  trembling  from  the  awful  rite, 

1  The  statue  of  Mr.  I'itt  in  Hanover  Square. 


296  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

For  the  last  time  shall  faintly  trace 
The  name  of  Stanhope's  noble  race. 
I  see  kind  faces  round  thee  pressing, 
I  hear  kind  voices  whisper  blessing; 
And  with  those  voices  mingles  mine,  — 
All  good  attend  m}-  Valentine! 

Lord  Macaulay. 
St.  Valentine's  Day,  1851. 


AUF   WIEDERSEHEN ! 


The  little  gate  was  reached  at  last, 
Half  hid  in  lilacs  down  the  lane; 
She  pushed  it  wide,  and,  as  she  past, 
A  wistful  look  she  backward  cast, 
And  said,  ^^  Auf  Wiedersehen  !  " 

With  hand  on  latch,  a  vision  white 

Lingered  reluctant,  and  again 
Half  doubting  if  she  did  aright. 
Soft  as  the  dews  that  fell  that  night, 
She  said,  "  Auf  Wiedersehen  !  " 

The  lamp's  clear  gleam  flits  up  the  stair; 

I  linger  in  delicious  pain; 
Ah,  iu  that  chamber,  whose  rich  air 
To  breathe  in  thought  I  scarcely  dare, 

Thinks  she,  '•'•  Auf  Wiedersehen'.  " 

'T  is  thirteen  years  ;  once  more  I  press 
The  turf  that  silences  the  lane; 


DOROTHY  Q.  297 

I  hear  the  rustle  of  her  dress, 
I  smell  the  lilacs,  and  —  ah,  yes, 
I  hear  "  ^u/  Wiedersehen  !  " 

Sweet  piece  of  bashful  maiden  art! 

The  English  words  had  seemed  too  fain, 
But  these —  they  drew  us  heart  to  heart, 
Yet  held  us  tenderly  apart; 

She  said,   "■  Aitf  Wiedersehen  !  " 

Jamks  Russell  Lowell.* 


DOROTHY   Q.2 

A    FAMILY    PORTRAIT. 

Grandmother's  mother:  her  age,  I  guess, 
Thirteen  summers,  or  something  less; 
Girlish  bust,  but  womanly  air; 
Smooth,  s({uai-e  forehead  with  uprolled  hair, 

1  Jamks  Rcssell  Lowkll,  the  sou  of  the  Rev.  Charles  Low- 
ell, and  descended  from  an  old  and  distinguished  New  Eng- 
land family,  was  born  in  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  in  1819. 
He  graduated  from  Harvard  College  in  1838,  studied  law  and 
was  admitted  to  the  bar,  which  he  soon  deserted  for  literature. 
In  1855  he  was  appointed  to  succeed  Mr.  Longfellow  as  professor 
.>f  belles-lettres  in  Harvard  College,  a  position  which  he  still 
retains.  He  has  taken  the  highest  rank  in  American  literature 
as  critic,  essayist,  satirist,  and  poet.  He  was  appointed  United 
States  minister  to  Spain  in  1877,  and  in  1880  was  promoted  to 
the  higher  position  of  United  States  minister  at  Loudon,  a  post 
which  he  now  holds. 

2  Uorothj'  Quincy  married  Edward  .lackson  ami  thus  became 
fhe  ancestress  of  the  poel.  Tlie  porirait  which  is  the  subject  of 
the  poem  i^s  in  itie  posser^>ii)u  ut  Dr.  Holmes. 


208  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS 

Lips  that  lover  has  never  kissed; 
Taper  fingers  and  slender  wrist: 
Hanging  sleeves  of  stiff  brocade; 
So  they  painted  the  little  maid. 

On  her  hand  a  parrot  green 

Sits  unmoving  and  broods  serene. 

Hold  up  the  canvas  full  in  view,  — 

Look!  there  's  a  rent  the  light  shines  through, 

Dark  with  a  century's  fringe  of  dust,  — 

That  was  a  Red-  Coat's  rapier-thrust ! 

Such  is  the  tale  tbe  lady  old, 

Dorothy's  daughter's  daughter,  told. 

Who  the  painter  was  none  may  tell,  — 
One  whose  best  was  not  over  well; 
Hard  and  dry,  it  must  be  confessed, 
Flat  as  a  rose  that  has  long  been  pressed; 
Yet  in  her  cheek  the  hues  are  bright, 
Dainty  colors  of  red  and  white, 
And  in  her  slender  shape  are  seen 
Hint  and  promise  of  stately  mien. 

Look  not  on  her  with  eyes  of  scorn,  — 
Dorothy  Q.  was  a  lady  born ! 
Ay !  since  the  galloping  Normans  came, 
England's  annals  have  known  her  name; 
And  still  to  the  three-hilled  rebel  town 
Dear  is  that  ancient  name's  renown, 
For  many  a  civic  wreath  they  won, 
The  youthful  sire  and  the  gray -haired  son. 

O  Damsel  Dorothy!  Dorothy  Q. ! 
Strange  is  the  gift  that  I  owe  to  you  ; 
Such  a  gift  as  never  a  king: 


DOROTHY  Q.  299 

Save  to  daughter  or  soa  might  bring,  — 
All  my  tenure  of  heart  and  hand  ; 
All  my  title  to  house  and  land ; 
Mother  and  sister  and  child  and  wife 
And  joy  and  sorrow  and  death  and  life! 

What  if  a  hundred  years  ago 

Those  close-shut  lips  had  answered  No, 

When  forth  the  tremulous  question  came 

That  cost  the  maiden  her  Norman  name, 

And  under  the  folds  that  look  so  still 

The  bodice  swelled  with  the  bosom's  thrill? 

Should  I  be  I,  or  would  it  be 

One  tenth  another,  to  nine  tenths  me? 

Soft  is  the  breath  of  a  maiden's  Yes: 

Not  the  light  gossamer  stirs  with  less; 

But  never  a  cable  that  holds  so  fast 

Through  all  the  battles  of  wave  and  blast, 

And  never  an  echo  of  speech  or  song 

That  lives  in  the  babbUng  air  so  long! 

There  were  tones  in  the  voice  that  whispered  then 

You  may  hear  to-day  in  a  hundred  men. 

0  la<ly  and  lover,  how  faint  and  far 
Your  images  hover,  —  and  here  we  are. 
Solid  and  stirring  in  flesh  and  bone,  — 
Edward's  and  Dorothy's  —  all  their  own,  — 
A  goodly  record  for  Time  to  show 

Of  a  syllable  spoken  so  long  ago!  — 

Shall  I  bless  you,  Dorothy,  or  forgive 

For  the  tender  whisper  that  bade  me  live? 

It  shall  be  a  blessing,  my  little  maid ! 

1  will  heal  the  stab  of  the  Iled-Coat's  blade, 


1 


300  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

And  freshen  the  gold  of  the  tarnished  frame, 
And  "ild  with  a  rhyme  ^our  household  name; 
So  you  shall  smile  on  us  brave  and  bright 
As  first  you  greeted  the  morning's  light, 
And  live  untroubled  by  woes  and  fears 
Through  a  second  youth  of  a  hundred  years. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


WHAT   MR.   ROBINSON   THINKS.^ 

GuvENER  B.  is  a  sensible  man  ; 

He  stays  to  his  home  an'  looks  arter  his  folks  ; 
He  draws  his  furrer  ez  straight  ez  he  can. 
An'  into  nobody's  tater-patch  pokes  ; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  want  vote  fer  Guvener  B. 

My  !  ain't  it  terrible  ?   Wut  shall  we  du? 

We  can't  never  choose  him,  o'  course,  —  thet  's  flat; 

Guess  we  shall  hev  to  come  round,  (don't  you  ?) 

An'  go  in  fer  thunder  an'  guns,  an'  all  that  ; 

Fer  John  P. 

Robinson  he 

Sez  he  wunt  vote  fer  Guvener  B. 

Gineral  C.  is  a  dreffle  smart  man  : 

He  's  ben  on  all  sides  thet  give  places  or  pelf; 


1  This  satire  was  directed  against  the  Mexican  war,  which  was 
forced  upon  the  country  in  1845,  by  the  South,  in  conformity 
with  their  policy  of  au  extension  uf  slave  territory. 


WHAT  MR.  ROBINSON  THINKS.      301 

But  consistency  still  wuz  a  part  of  his  plan,  — 

He  's  ben  true  to  one  party,  — an'  thet  is  himself  ; 
So  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  shall  vote  fer  Gineral  C. 

Gineral  C.  he  goes  in  fer  the  war ; 

He  don't  vally  principle  more  'n  an  old  cud; 
Wut  did  God  make  us  raytional  creeturs  fer, 
But  glory  an'  gunpowder,  plunder  an'  blood? 
So  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  shall  vote  fer  Gineral  C. 

We  were  gittin'  on  nicely  up  here  to  our  village. 

With  good  old  idees  o'  wut 's  right  an'  wut  ain't, 
We  kind  o'  thought  Christ  went  agin  war  an'  pillage, 
An'  thet  eppyletts  worn't  the  best  mark  of  a  saint ; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  this  kind  o'  thing  's  an  exploded  idee. 

Tlie  side  of  our  country  must  oilers  be  took. 

An'  Presidunt  Polk,  you  know,  he  is  our  country,  — 
An'  the  angel  thet  writes  all  our  sins  in  a  book 
Puts  the  debit  to  him,  an'  to  us  the  per  conlnj  ; 
An'  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  this  is  his  view  o'  the  thing  to  a  T. 

Parson  Wilbur  he  calls  all  these  arginiuiits  lies; 

Sez  they  're  nothin'  on  airth  but  jt'»t  fee,  fatv,  fum  . 
An'  thet  all  this  big  talk  of  our  destinies 

Is  half  on  it  ign'auce,  an'  t'  other  half  rum  ; 


302  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  it  ain't  no  sech  thing  ;  an'  o£  course  so  must  we. 

Parson  Wilbur  sez  he  never  heard  in  his  life 

Thet  th'  Apostles  rigged  out  in  their  svvaller-tail  coats 
An'  marched  round  in  front  of  a  drum  an'  a  fife, 
To  git  some  on  'em  office,  an'  some  on  'em  votes  ] 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  they  did  n't  know  everythin'  down  in  Judee. 

Wal,  it  's  a  marcy  we  've  gut  folks  to  tell  us 

The  I'ights  an'  the  wrongs  o'  these  matters,  I  vow, 
God  sends  country  lawyers,  an'  other  wise  fellers. 
To  start  the  world's  team  wen  it  gits  in  a  slough  ; 
Fer  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  the  world  '11  go  right,  ef  he  hollers  out  Gee  ! 
James  Russell  Lowell. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  OYSTERMAN. 

It  was  a  tall  young  oysterman  lived  l)y  the  river-side  ; 
His  shop  was  just  upon  the  bank,  his  boat  was  on  the 

tide  ; 
The  daughter  of  a  fisherman,  that  was  so  straight  and 

slim. 
Lived  over  on  the  other  bank,  right  opposite  to  him. 

It  was  the  pensive  oysterman  that  saw  a  lovely  maid 
Upon  a  moonlight  evening,  a  sitting  in  the  shade; 


ai*gK«tf2MWV^    |-^M— wi  ■  Mil'  r     i  jjf  .WTTTT^TrTjrr^MgTiPBJM i    ■.  i«jii»i»^MtHI»^— ini^wpM^— ^IJ— p— mgWPIfFMg    ^v: 


BALLAD   OF   THE   OYSTERMAN.       303 

He  saw  her  wave  her  handkercliief,  as  mucli  as  if  to  say, 
"I'm  wide  awake,  young  oy sternum,  and  all  the  folks 
away." 

Then  up  arose  the  oysterman,  and  to  himself  said  he, 
"T  guess  I'll  leave  the  skifE  at  home,  for  fear  that 

folks  should  see ; 
I  read  it  in  the  story-book,  that,  for  to  kiss  his  dear, 
Leander  swam  the  Hellesj^ont,  — and  I  will  swim  this 

here." 

And  he  has  leaped  into  the  waves,  and  crossed  the 

shinino;  stream. 
And  he  has  clambered  up  the  bank  all  in  the  moonlight 

gleam  ; 

0  there  were  kisses  sweet  as  dew,  and  words  as  soft  as 

rain, — 
But  they  have  heard  the  father's  step,  and  in  he  leaps 
again ! 

Out  spoke  the  ancient  fisherman,  — "  O  what  was  that, 
my  daughter?  " 

"  'T  was  nothing  but  a  pebble,  sir,  I  threw  into  the 
water." 

"  And  what  is  that,  pray  tell  me,  love,  that  paddles  oft 
so  fast?  " 

"  It 's  nothing  but  a  porpoise,  sir,  that 's  been  a  swim- 
ming past." 

Out  spoke  the  ancient  fisherman,  —  "Now  bring  me 
my  harpoon  ! 

1  '11  get  into  my  fishing-boat,  and  fix  the  fellow  soon." 
Down  fell  that  jiretty  innocent,  as  falls  a  snow-white 

lamb, 
Her  hair  drooped  round  her  pallid  cheeks,  like  seaweed 
on  a  clam. 


_J. 


304  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Alas  for  those  two  loving  ones  !  she  waked  not  from 

her  swound, 
And  he  was  taken  with  the  cramp,  and  in  the  waves 

was  drowned  ; 
But  Fate  has  metamorphosed  them,  in  pity  of  their  woe, 
And  now  they  keep  an  oyster-shop  for  mermaids  down 

below. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


THE   SPECTRE   PIG. 

A    BALLAD. 

It  was  the  stalwart  butcher  man, 
That  knit  his  swarthy  brow. 

And  said  the  gentle  Pig  must  die. 
And  sealed  it  with  a  vow. 

And  O I  it  was  the  gentle  Pig 
Lay  stretched  upon  the  ground, 

And  ah  !  it  was  the  cruel  knife 
His  little  heart  that  found. 

They  took  him  then,  those  wicked  men. 

They  trailed  him  all  along; 
They  put  a  stick  between  his  lips. 

And  through  his  heels  a  thong ; 

And  round  and  round  an  oaken  beam 

A  hempen  cord  they  flung. 
And,  like  a  mighty  pendulum. 

All  solemnly  he  swung. 


THE  SPECTRE  PIG.  305 

Now  say  thy  prayers,  thou  sinful  man, 

And  think  what  thou  hast  done. 
And  read  thy  catechism  well. 

Thou  bloody-minded  one; 

For  if  his  sprite  should  walk  by  night. 

It  better  were  for  thee, 
That  thou  wert  mouldering  in  the  ground, 

Or  bleaching  in  the  sea. 

It  was  the  savage  butcher  then, 

That  made  a  mock  of  sin, 
And  swore  a  very  wicked  oath, 

He  did  not  care  a  pin. 

It  was  the  butcher's  youngest  son,  — 

His  voice  was  broke  with  sighs, 
And  with  his  pocket  handkerchief  \ 

He  wiped  his  little  eyes ; 

All  young  and  ignorant  was  he. 

But  innocent  and  mild, 
And  in  his  soft  simplicity 

Out  spoke  the  tender  child:  — 

"  O  father,  father,  list  to  me; 
The  Pig  is  deadly  sick. 
And  men  have  hung  him  by  his  heels. 
And  fed  him  with  a  stick." 

It  was  the  bloody  butcher  then, 

That  laughed  as  he  would  die. 
Yet  did  he  soothe  the  sorrowing  child, 

And  bid  him  not  to  cry:  — 
20 


1 


aHBBSIBKUas^^ 


306  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

"  O  Nathan,  Nathan,  what 's  a  Pig, 
That  thou  shouldst  weep  and  waill 
Come,  bear  thee  like  a  butcher's  child, 
And  thou  i^halt  have  his  tail!  " 

It  was  the  butcher's  daughter  then, 

So  slender  and  so  fair, 
That  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break, 

And  tore  her  yellow  hair; 

And  thus  she  spoke  in  thrilling  tone, — 
Fast  fell  the  tear-drops  big,  — 
"  Ah!  woe  is  me!     Alas!  Alas  ! 

The  Pig !     The  Pig !     The  Pig !  " 

Then  did  her  wicked  father's  lips 

Make  merry  with  her  woe, 
And  call  her  many  a  naughty  name, 

Because  she  whimpered  so. 

Ye  need  not  weep,  ye  gentle  ones, 
In  vain  your  tears  are  shed. 

Ye  cannot  wash  his  crimson  hand, 
Ye  cannot  soothe  the  dead. 

The  bright  sun  folded  on  his  breast 

His  robes  of  rosy  flame. 
And  softly  over  all  the  west 

The  shades  of  evening  came. 

He  slept,  and  troops  of  murdered  Pigs 
Were  busy  with  his  dreams; 

Loud  rang  their  wild,  unearthly  shrieks, 
Wide  yawned  their  mortal  seams. 


THE  SPECTRE  PIG.  307 

Tlie  clock  struck  twelve;  the  Dead  hath  heard; 

He  opened  both  his  eyes, 
And  sullenly  he  shook  his  tail 

To  lash  the  feeding  flies. 

One  quiver  of  the  hempen  cord, — 

One  struggle  and  one  bound,  — 
With  stiffened  limb  and  leaden  eye, 

The  Pig  was  on  the  ground ! 

And  straight  towards  the  sleeper's  house 

His  fearful  way  he  wended; 
And  hooting  owl,  and  hovering  bat, 

On  midnight  wing  attended. 

Back  flew  the  bolt,  up  rose  the  latch. 

And  open  swung  the  door, 
And  little  mincing  feet  were  heard 

Pat,  pat  along  the  floor. 

Two  hoofs  upon  the  sanded  floor, 

And  two  upon  the  bed; 
And  they  are  breathing  side  by  side. 

The  living  and  the  dead! 

"Now  wake,  now  wake,  thou  l)ut('hcr  man! 
What  makes  thy  cheek  so  jiale  ? 
Take  hold!  take  hold  !  thou  dost  not  fear 
To  clasp  a  spectre's  tail?  " 

Untwisted  every  winding  coil; 

The  shuddering  wretch  took  hold, 
All  like  an  icicle  it  seemed. 

So  tapering  and  so  cold. 


308  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

"  Thon  coin'st  with  me,  tliou  butcher  man!  "  — 
He  strives  to  loose  his  grasp, 
But,  faster  than  the  clinging  vine, 
Those  twining  spirals  clasp. 

And  open,  open  swung  the  door, 

And,  fleeter  than  the  wind, 
The  shadowy  spectre  swept  before, 

The  butcher  trailed  behind. 

Fast  fled  the  darkness  of  the  night, 

And  morn  rose  faint  and  dim; 
They  called  full  loud,  they  knocked  full  long, 

They  did  not  waken  him. 

Straight,  straight  towards  that  oaken  beam, 

A  trampled  pathway  ran; 
A  ghastly  shape  was  swinging  there,  — 

It  was  the  butcher  man. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


A   RHYMED   LESSON. 


Some  words  on  Language  may  be  well  applied. 
And  take  them  kindly,  though  they  touch  your  pride ; 
Words  lead  to  things;  a  scale  is  more  precise, — 
Coarse  speech,  bad  grammar,  swearing,  drinking,  vice. 

Our  cold  Northeaster's  icy  fetter  clips 
The  native  freedom  of  the  Saxon  lips; 
See  the  brown  peasant  of  the  plastic  South, 
How  all  his  passions  play  about  his  mouth! 
I  With  us,  the  feature  that  transmits  the  soul, 

ij  A  frozen,  passive,  palsied  breathing-hole. 


A  RHYMED  LESSON.  309 

The  crampy  shackles  of  the  ploughboy's  walk 

Tie  the  small  muscles  when  he  strives  to  talk; 

Not  all  the  pumice  of  the  polished  town 

Can  smooth  this  roughness  of  the  barnyard  down; 

Rich,  honored,  titled,  he  betrays  his  race 

By  this  one  mark,  — he  's  awkward  in  the  face;  — 
I  Nature's  rude  impress,  long  before  he  knew 

f.  The  sunny  street  that  holds  the  sifted  few. 

It  can't  be  helped,  though,  if  we  're  taken  young. 

We  gain  some  freedom  of  the  lips  and  tongue; 

But  school  and  college  often  try  in  vain 

To  break  the  padlock  of  our  boyhood's  chain: 

One  stubborn  word  will  prove  this  axiom  true, — 
;  No  quondam  rustic  can  enunciate  view. 

I  A  few  brief  stanzas  may  be  well  employed 

f  To  speak  of  errors  we  can  all  avoid. 

i 

I  Learning  condemns  beyond  the  reach  of  hope 

f,  The  careless  lips  that  speak  of  soap  for  soap; 

^  Her  edict  exiles  from  her  fair  abode 

*  The  clownish  voice  that  utters  road  for  road; 

Less  stern  to  him,  who  calls  his  coat  a  coat, 

And  steers  his  boat,  believing  it  a  boat. 

She  pardoned  one,  our  classic  city's  boast, 
J  Who  said,  at  Cambridge,  most  instead  of  m5st, 

I  But  knit  her  brows  and  stamped  her  angry  foot 

I  To  bear  a  Teacher  call  a  root  a  root. 

i  Once  more;  speak  clearly,  if  you  speak  at  all;  |l 

I  Carve  every  word  before  yon  let  it  fall; 

Don't,  like  a  lecturer  or  dramatic  star. 

Try  over  hard  to  roll  the  British  R ; 

Do  put  your  accents  in  the  proper  spot ; 

Don't,  —  let    me  beg  you,  —  don't  say  "How?  "for 
"WhatV" 


wsmBmrnofsmt 


310 


BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


And,  when  you  stick  on  conversation's  burrs, 
Don't  strew  your  pathway  with  those  dreadful  urs. 
Oliver  AVendell  Holmes. 


THE   ROSE   UPON   MY   BALCONY. 

The  rose  upon  my  balcony,  the  morning  air  perfuming, 
Was   leafless   all  the  winter  time  and  pining  for  the 

spring; 
You  ask   me  why  her  breath  is  sweet,  and  why  her 

cheek  is  blooming: 
It  is  because  the  sun  is  out  and  birds  begin  to  sing. 

The  nightingale,  whose  melody  is  through  the  green- 
wood ringing, 

Was  silent  when  the  boughs  were  bare  and  winds  were 
blowing  keen. 

And  if,  Mamma,  you  ask  of  me  the  reason  of  his  sing- 
ing, 

It  is  because  the  sun  is  out  and  all  the  leaves  are 
green. 


Thus  each  performs  his  part,  Mamma:  the  birds  have 
found  their  voices, 

The  blowing  rose  a  flush.  Mamma,  her  bonny  cheek  to 
dye; 

And   there 's   sunshine   in   my  heart,  Mamma,   which 
wakens  and  rejoices. 

And  so  I  sing  and  blush.  Mamma,  and  that's  the  rea- 
son why. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray.^ 

Vanity  Fair. 

1  WiLLiAJi  Makepeace  Thackeray,  born  at  Calcutta,  in 
1811,  was   educated  at  the  Charter  House,  aud  at  Canibriilge 


GREEN  FIELDS   OF  ENGLAND.        311 


GREEN  FIELDS    OF  ENGLAND. 

Green  fields  of  England!  wheresoe'er 
Across  this  watery  waste  we  fare, 
Your  image  at  our  hearts  we  bear, 
Green  fields, of  England,  everywhere. 

Sweet  eyes  in  England,  I  must  flee 
Past  where  the  waves'  last  confines  be. 
Ere  your  loved  smile  I  cease  to  see. 
Sweet  eyes  in  England,  dear  to  me. 

Dear  home  in  England,  safe  and  fast 
If  but  in  thee  my  lot  be  cast. 
The  past  shall  seem  a  nothing  past 
To  thee,  dear  home,  if  won  at  last; 
Dear  home  in  England,  won  at  last. 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough.^ 

University.  He  inherited  a  handsome  property,  but  lost  it, 
studied  law,  and  finally  took  to  literature.  He  wrote  many 
charming  poems,  but  his  fame  rests  upon  his  novels,  which 
have  placed  iiim  at  the  head  of  English  novelists.  He  died  in 
1863. 

1  Artiil'k  Hugh  Clough  was  born  at  Liverpool  in  1820. 
He  was  educated  at  Rugby  and  O.xford,  and  was  then  a  tutor 
for  some  time  in  Oriel  College.  In  1852  he  visited  the  United 
States,  and  passed  some  time  in  Cambridge,  Massachusetts. 
He  died  at  Florence,  Italy,  in  1861.  Besides  a  volume  of  very 
remarkable  poems,  he  published  a  transhition  of  Plutarch,  iu 
1859. 


312  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


THE   DEATH   OF   THE   FLOWERS. 

The    melanclioly  days  are  come,   the  saddest  of  the 

year. 
Of  wailing  winds,   and   naked   woods,   and    meadows 

brown  and  sear. 
Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  withered  leaves 

lie  dead : 
They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rabbit's 

tread. 
The  robin  and  the  wreri  are  flown,  and  from  the  shrubs 

the  jay; 
And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow,  through  all  the 

gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers,  that 
lately  sprang  and  stood, 

In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous  sister- 
hood ? 

Alas!  they  all  are  in  their  graves  :  the  gentle  race  of 
flowers 

Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the  fair  and  good 
of  ours. 

The  rain  is  falUng  where  they  lie  ;  but  the  cold  No- 
vember rain 

Calls  not,  from  out  the  gloomy  earth,  the  lovely  ones 
again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long 
ago; 

And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the  sum- 
mer glow  ; 

But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the  aster  in  the 
wood , 


THE  DEATH   OF  THE  FLOWERS.     313 

And  the  yellow  sunflower  by  tlie  brook,  in  autuinn 
beauty  stood, 

Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear,  cold  heaven,  as  falls 
the  plague  on  men. 

And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone  from  up- 
land, glade,  and  glen. 

And  now  when  comes  the  calm,  mild  day,  as  still  such 
days  will  come. 

To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  winter 
home; 

When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all 
the  trees  are  still. 

And  twinkle  in  the  smokv  light  the  waters  of  the 
rill,  — 

The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose  fra- 
grance late  he  bore. 

And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream 
no  more; 

And  tiien  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful  beauty 

died. 
The  fair,  meek  blossom  that  grew  up,  and  faded  by  my 

side: 
In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her  when  the  forest  cast 

the  leaf. 
And  Ave  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a  life  so 

brief  ; 
Tet  not  unmeet  it  was,  that  one,  like  that  young  friend 

of  ours, 
So  gentle   and   so   beautiful,    should   perish  with    the 

flowers. 

William  Culi.k.n   Bhyant.' 

1  William    Cullen   Bryant   was   bom    at    Ciimminyton, 
Massachusetts,  in  1794.    At  the  aye  of  thiitecu  he  published  two 


314 


BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


THE   RAVEN. 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  1  pondered,  weak 

and  weary. 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten 

lore  — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came 

a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber 

door. 
"'Tis   some  visitor,"  I   muttered,    "tapping  at   my 

chamber  door  — 

Only  this  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  Decem- 
ber, 

And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon 
the  floor. 

Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow ;  vainly  I  had  sought  to 
borrow 

From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow  —  sorrow  for  the  lost 
Lenore  — 

For  the   rare   and   radiant  maiden   whom    the   angels 
named  Lenore  — 

Nameless  here  forevermore. 


l^oems  entitled  The  Embargo  and  The  Spanish  Revolution,  the 
former  a  political  satire.  He  studied  at  Williams  College,  and 
then  practised  law  for  several  years.  In  1816  he  published  Than- 
atopsis,  a  poem  which  gave  him  immediate  reputation.  In  1825 
he  removed  to  New  York,  and  accepted  the  editorship  of  the 
Evening  Post,  which  he  held  until  his  death,  in  1878.  He  made 
several  journeys  in  Europe,  of  which  he  published  descriptions, 
%nd  translated  Homer,  besides  writing  a  small  number  of  short 
tka«ms. 


THE  RAVEN.  315 

A.n(l  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple 

curtain 
Thrilled  me  —  filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt 

before ; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood 

repeating, 
"  'Tis  some  visitor,  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 

door  — 
Some  late  visitor,  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 

door; 

This  it  is,  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger;  hesitating  then  no 
longer, 

"Sir,"   said  I,  "or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I 
implore; 

But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came 
rapping. 

And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  cham- 
ber door, 

That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you  "  —  here  I  opened 
wide  the  door,  — 

Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more. 

Deep   into  that  darkness  peering,  long  1  stood  there, 

wondering,  fearing. 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever  dared  to 

dream  before; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave 

no  token, 
A.nd  the  only  word  tliere   spoken  was    the  whispered 

word,  "  LenoreV  " 
This    I  whispered,  and    an  echo  murmured  back  the 

word  "  Lenorel  " 

Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 


316  BALLADS  AND  LYBICS. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me 
burning, 

Soon   ao-ain  I  heard  a  tapping  something  louder  than 
before. 

''Surely,"  said    I,   "surely  that   is    something  at  my 
window  lattice; 

Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery 
explore  — 

Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment,  and  this  mystery  ex- 
plore :  — 

'Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more." 

Open   here    I  flung  the    shutter,  when,  with    many  a 

flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days  of 

yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he  ;  not  a  minute  stopped 

or  stayed  he, 
But,    with   mien   of   lord    or  lady,  perched  above  my 

chamber  door  — 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber 

door  — 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then    this    ebony   bird  beguiling   my  sad    fancy   into 
smiling, 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it 

wore, 
'  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  said 
I,  "  art  sure  no  craven. 

Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  Raven,  wandering  from  the 
Nightly  sbore  — 

Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plu- 
tonian shore." 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 


THE  RAVEN.  317 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse 
so  plainly, 

Though   its   answer    little  meaning  —  little  relevance- 
bore  ; 

For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  be- 
ing 

Ever   yet    was    blessed    with    seeing   bird    above   his 
chamber  door  — 

Bird    or   beast   upon   the    sculptured   bust   above   his 
chamber  door, 

With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But   the   Raven,    sitting   lonely  on   that   placid   bust, 

spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his   soul  in  that  one  word  he  did 

outpour; 
Nothing  farther  then  he  uttered;  not  a  feather  then  he 

fluttered  — 
Till  I  scarcely  more   than  muttered,   "  Other  friends 

have  flown  befoi'e  — 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  Hopes  have 

flown  befoi'e." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "Nevermore." 

Startled    at    the    stillness    broken   by   reply    so   aptly 

spoken, 
•'  Doubtless,"    said    I,    "  what   it    utters    is    its    only 

stock  and  store. 
Caught  from   some  unhappy  master,  whom  unmerciful 

Disaster 
Followed   fast   and  followed    faster  till  his  songs  one 

burden  bore  — 
Till  the   dii'ges  of  his  Hope   that  melancholy  burden 

bore 

Of  '  Never  —  Nevermore.'  " 


318 


BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


But   the   Raven    still  beguiling  all   my   sad   soul  into 

smiling, 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned   seat  in  front  of  bird 

and  bust  and  door; 
Tlien,    upon   the   velvet    sinking,   I  betook   myself  to 

linking 
Fanc)  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of 

yore  — 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous 

bird  of  yore  — 

Meant  in  croaking  "Nevermore." 


This   I   sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  ex- 
pressing 

To  the   fowl,   whose   fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my 
bosom's  core ; 

This  and  more  I  sat   divining,  with  my  head   at  ease 
reclining 

On   the   cushion's   velvet   lining    that   the   lamp-light 
gloated  o'er. 

But   whose  velvet   violet   lining   with    the    lamp-light 
gloating  o'er 

She  shall  press^  ah,  nevermore! 

Then,     methought,    the    air   grew    denser,    perfumed 

from  an  unseen  censer 
Swung  by  Seraphim    whose  foot-falls  tinkled   on  the 

tufted  floor. 
■'Wretch,"    I  cried,    "thy  God  hath  lent  thee  —  by 

these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite  —  respite   and  nepenthe  from   thy  memories  of 

Lenore ! 
Quaff,  O  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this  lost 

Lenore  !  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 


THE  RAVEN.  319 

'Prophet!"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil! — prophet  still,  if 
bird  or  devil! 

Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee 
here  ashore, 

Desolate   yet   all  undaunted,  on  this    desert  land  en- 
chanted— 

On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted  —  tell  me  truly,  I  im- 
plore — 

Is  there  —  is  there   balm   in   Gilead  ?  —  tell  me  —  tell 
me,  1  implore!  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"Prophet!"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil — prophet  still,  if 

bird  or  devil! 
By  that   Heaven  that  bends  above  us  —  by  that  God 

we  both  adore  — 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden,  if,  within  the  distant 

Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenore  — 
Clasp   a   rare  and  radiant  maiden   whom    the    angels 

name  Lenore." 

Quoth  the  Kaven,  "Nevermore." 

"  Be  that  word  oui  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend!"  I 
shrieked,  upstarting  — 

"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  Night's  Plu- 
tonian shore! 

Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul 
hath  spoken ! 

Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken!  —  quit  tbe  bust  above 
my  door! 

Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form 
from  off  my  door!  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 


320 


BALLADS  AND   LYRICS. 


And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is 

sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber 

door; 
And  his  ej  es  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is 

dreaming, 
And   the   lamp-light   o'er  him    streaming   throws   his 

shadow  on  the  floor; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on 

the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted —Nevermore! 

Edgar   Allan  Poe.^ 


IN    SCHOOL-DAYS. 

Still  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road, 

A  ragged  beggar  sunning; 
Around  it  still  the  sumachs  grow. 

And  blackberrv-vines  are  running. 


Within,  the  master's  desk  is  seen, 

Deep  scarred  by  raps  official; 
The  warping  floor,  the  battered  seats, 

The  jack-knife's  carved  initial ; 

1  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  born  in  Boston  in  1809,  was  educated 
in  Baltimore  and  in  England,  and  studied  at  the  University  of 
Virginia,  after  which  he  passed  a  year  in  Europe.  He  wrote  for 
and  edited  various  magazines,  and  it  was  at  this  time  he  pro- 
duced his  extraordinary  stories.  The  Raven  is  the  one  work, 
however,  which  has  attained  world-wide  popularity  and  given 
Poe  enduring  fame.  His  mind  was  of  a  gloomy  and  morbid 
cast,  which  was  enhanced  by  a  loose  life  and  intemperate  habita. 
tie  died  at  Baltimore  in  1849. 


IN  SCHOOL-DAYS.  321 

The  charcoal  frescos  on  its  wall; 

Its  door's  worn  sill,  betraying 
The  feet  that,  creeping  slow  to  school, 

Went  storming  out  to  playing! 

Long  years  ago  a  winter  sun 

Shone  over  it  at  setting  ; 
Lit  up  its  western  window-panes. 

And  low  eaves'  icy  fretting. 

It  touched  the  tangled  golden  curls, 

And  brown  eyes  full  of  grieving, 
Of  one  who  still  her  steps  delayed 

When  all  the  school  were  leaving. 

For  near  her  stood  the  little  boy 

Her  childish  favor  singled  : 
His  cap  pulled  low  upon  a  face 

Where  pride  and  shame  were  mingled. 

Pushing  with  restless  feet  the  snow 

To  right  and  left  he  lingered; 
As  restlessly  her  tiny  hands 

The  blue-checked  apron  fingered. 

He  saw  her  lift  her  eyes;  he  felt 

The  soft  hand's  light  caressing, 
And  heard  the  tremble  of  her  voice, 

As  if  a  fault  confessing. 

"  I  'm  sorrv  that  1  spelt  the  word: 
I  hate  to  go  above  you, 
Because," —  the  brown  eyes  lower  fell, — 
"  Because,  you  see,  I  love  you!  " 
21 


322  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Still  memory  to  a  gray-haired  man 
That  sweet  child-face  is  showing. 

Dear  girl !  the  grasses  on  her  grave 
Have  forty  years  been  growing  ! 

He  lives  to  learn,  in  life's  hard  school, 
How  few  who  pass  above  him 

Lament  their  triumph  and  his  loss, 
Like  her,  —  because  they  love  him. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier.* 


ALADDIN. 

When  I  was  a  beggarly  boy. 

And  lived  in  a  cellar  damp, 
I  had  not  a  friend  nor  a  toy, 

But  I  had  Aladdin's  lamp; 
When  I  could  not  sleep  fgr  cold, 

I  had  fire  enoutih  in  my  brain, 
And  builded,  with  roofs  of  gold, 

My  beautiful  castles  in  Spain ! 

Since  then  I  have  toiled  day  and  night, 
I  have  money  and  power  good  store. 

But  I'd  give  all  my  lamps  of  silver  bright, 
For  the  one  that  is  mine  no  more ; 

1  John  Greenleaf  Whittiek  was  bcini  at  Haverhill,  Mas- 
sachusetts, ill  1808.  He  was  brought  up  by  his  parents  in  the 
principles  of  the  Quaker  belief,  to  which  he  has  always  adhered. 
He  never  went  to  college.  He  edited  i\i%  New  England  Review, 
and  afterwards  the  Pennsylvania  Freeman,  an  organ  of  the 
anti-slavery  party,  of  which  he  was  a  prominent  member.  He 
still  lives  in  quiet  retirement  at  Danvers,  Massachusetts. 


"And  there  bot  Huidy  all  aluiie."     See  p.  323. 


THE   COURTIN'.  323 

Take,  Fortune,  whatever  you  choose, 

You  gave,  aud  may  snatch  again ; 
I  have  nothing  'twould  pain  nie  to  lose, 

For  I  own  no  more  castles  in  Spain  ! 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


THE  COURTIN'. 


God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still. 

Fur  'z  you  can  look  or  listen, 
Moonshine  an'  snow  on  field  an'  hill, 

All  silence  an'  all  glisten. 

f 
Zekle  crep'  up  quite  unbeknown  j 

An'  peeked  in  thru'  the  winder, 
An'  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 

'ith  no  one  nigh  to  hender. 

A  fireplace  filled  the  room's  one  side, 

With  half  a  cord  o'  wood  in,  — 
There  warn't  no  stoves  (tell  comfort  died) 

To  bake  ye  to  a  puddin'. 

The  wa'nut  logs  shot  sparkles  out 

Towards  tiie  pootiest,  bless  her, 
An'  leetle  flames  danced  all  about 

The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 

Agin  the  chimbley  crook-necks  hung, 

An'  in  amongst  'em  rusted 
T]u>  ole  queen's-arm  thet  gran'ther  Young 

Fitched  back  from  Concord  busted. 


324  BALLADS  AND   LYRICS. 

The  very  room,  coz  she  was  in, 
Seemed  warm  from  floor  to  ceilin', 

An'  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  ao-in 
Ez  the  apples  she  was  peelin'. 

'Twas  kin'  o'  kingdom-come  to  look 

On  sech  a  blessed  cretur, 
A  dogrose  blushin'  to  a  brook 
Ain't  modester  nor  sweeter. 

He  was  six  foot  o'  man,  A  1, 
Clear  grit  an'  human  natur'; 

None  could  n't  quicker  pitch  a  ton 
Nor  dror  a  furrer  straighter. 

He  'd  sparked  it  with  full  twenty  gals, 
Hed  squired  'em,  danced  'em,  druv  'em, 

Fust  this  one,  an'  then  thet,  by  spells,  — 
All  is,  he  could  n't  love  'em. 

But  long  o'  her  his  veins  'ould  run 
All  crinkly  like  curled  maple, 

The  side  she  breshed  felt  full  o'  sun 
Ez  a  south  slope  in  Ap'il. 

She  thought  no  v'ice  hed  sech  a  swing 

Ez  hisn  in  the  choir; 
My!  when  he  made  Ole  Hunderd  ring, 

She  knowed  the  Lord  was  nigher. 

An'  she  'd  blush  scarlit,  right  in  prayer, 
When  her  new  meetin'-bunnet 

Felt  somehow  thru'  its  crown  a  pair 
O'  blue  eyes  sot  upon  it. 


THE   COURTIN'.  325 

Thet  night,  I  tell  ye,  she  looked  some  ! 

She  seemed  to  've  gut  a  new  soul, 
For  she  felt  sartin-sure  he  'd  come, 

Down  to  her  very  shoe-sole. 

Slie  heered  a  foot,  an'  knowed  it  lu, 

A-raspin'  on  the  scraper,  — 
All  ways  to  once  her  feelins  flew 

Like  sparks  in  burnt-up  paper! 

He  kin'  o'  I'itered  on  the  mat. 

Some  doubtfle  o'  the  sekle, 
His  heart  kep'  goin'  pity-pat, 

But  hern  went  pity  Zekle. 

An'  yit  she  gin  her  cheer  a  jiik 

Ez  though  she  wished  him  furder. 
An'  on  her  apples  kep'  to  work, 

Parin'  away  like  munler. 

"  You  want  to  see  my  Pa,  I  s'pose?  " 

"  Wal  ....  no  ....  I  come  dasignin'  "  — 
"  To  see  my  Ma?  She  's  sprinklin'  clo'es 

Agin  to-morrer's  i'nin'." 

To  say  why  gals  acts  so  or  so, 

Or  don't,  'ould  be  presuiniu'; 
^lebby  to  mean  yes  an'  say  no 

Comes  nateral  to  women. 

He  stood  a  sjiell  on  one  foot  fust. 

Then  stood  a  spell  on  t'  other, 
An'  on  whiih  one  he  felt  tlie  wust 

He  coidd  n't  ha'  told  ye  niither. 


326  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Says  he,  "I  'd  better  call  agin;  " 
Says  she,  "  Think  likely,  Mister:  " 

Thet  last  word  pricked  him  like  a  pin, 
An'   ....  Wal,  he  up  an'  kist  her. 

When  Ma  bimeby  upon  'em  slips, 

Huldy  sot  pale  ez  ashes, 
All  kin'  o'  smily  roun'  the  lips 

An'  teary  roun'  the  lashes. 

For  she  was  jes'  the  quiet  kind 

Whose  naturs  never  vary, 
Like  streams  that  keep  a  summer  mind 

Snowhid  in  Jenooary. 

The  blood  clost  roun'  her  heart  felt  glued 

Too  tight  for  all  expressin'. 
Tell  mother  see  how  metters  stood, 

An'  gin  'em  both  her  blessin'. 

Then  her  red  come  back  like  the  tide 

Down  to  the  Bay  o'  Fundy, 
An'  all  I  know  is  they  was  cried 

In  meetin'  come  nex'  Sunday. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


NUREMBERG. 


In  the  valley  of  the  Pegnitz,  where  across  broad  mead- 
ow-lands 

Rise  the  blue  Franconian  mountains,  Nuremberg,  the 
ancient,  stands. 


NUREMBERG.  327 

Quaint  old  town  of  toil  and  traffic,  quaint  old  town  of 

art  and  song, 
Memories  haunt  thy  pointed  gables,  like  the  rooks  that 

round  them  throng: 

Memories  of  the  Middle  Ages,  when  the  Emperors, 
rough  and  bold, 

Had  their  dwelling  in  thy  castle,  time-defying,  centu- 
ries old; 

And  thy  brave  and   thrifty  burghers  boasted,  in  their 

uncouth  rhyme. 
That  their  great  imperial  city  stretched  its  hand  through 

every  clime. 

In  the  court-yard  of  the  castle,  bound  with   many  an 

iron  band. 
Stands   the    mighty  linden    planted  by    Queen    Cuni- 

gunde's  hand; 

On   the  square  the  oriel  window,  where  in  old  heroic 

days 
Sat  the   poet  Melchior,   singing  Kaiser  Maximilian's 

praise. 

Everywhere  I  see  around  me  rise  the  wondrous  world 

'  of  Art: 
Fountains  wrought  with  richest  sculpture   standing  in 
the  common  mart; 

And    above    cathedral    doorways    saints   and    bishops 

carved  in  stone. 
By    a    former   age    commissioned    as    apostles    to    our 

own. 


328  BALLADS  AND   LYRICS. 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Sebald  sleeps  enshrined  his 

holy  dust, 
And  in  bronze  the  Twelve  Apostles  guard  from  age  to 

age  their  trust; 

In  the   church  of  sainted   Lawrence  stands  a  pix  of 

sculpture  rare, 
Like  the   foamy  sheaf  of  fountains,  rising  through  the 

painted  air. 

Here,  when  Art  was  still  religion,  with  a  simple,  rev- 
erent heart, 

Lived  and  labored  Albrecht  Diirer,  the  Evangelist  of 
Art; 

Hence  in  silence  and  in  sorrow,  toiling  still  with  busy 

hand, 
Like  an  emigrant  he  wandered,  seeking  for  the  Better 

Land. 

Emigravit  is  the  inscription   on  the  tombstone   where 

he  lies; 
Dead  he  is  not,  but  departed,  —  for  the  artist  never 

dies. 

Fairer  seems  the  ancient  city,  and  the  sunshine  seems 

more  fair, 
That  he  once  has  trod  its  pavement,  that  he  once  has 

breathed  its  air. 

Through  these  streets  so  broad  and  stately,  these  ob- 
scure and  dismal  lanes. 

Walked  of  yore  the  Mastersingers,  chanting  rude  po 
etic  strains. 


NUREMBERG.  329 

From  remote  and  sunless   suburbs   came   they  to   the 

friendly  giiil<l, 
Building  nests  in  Fame's  great  temple,  as  in   spouts 

the  sparrows  build.  '• 

As  the  weaver  plied  the  shuttle,  wove  he  too  the  mys- 
tic rhyme. 

And  tlie  smith  his  iron  measures  hammered  to  the  an- 
vil's chime; 

Thanking    God,    whose  boundless  wisdom  makes  the 

flowers  of  poesy  bloom 
In  the  forge's  dust  and  cinders,  in  the  tissues  of  the 

loom. 

Here    Hans    Sachs,  the   cobbler-poet,   laureate  of  the 

gentle  craft, 
Wisest  of  the  Twelve  Wise  Masters,    in   huge   folios 

sang  and  laughed. 

But  his   house    is    now    an    ale-house,    with   a   nicely 

sanded  floor. 
And  a  garland  in  the  window,  and  his  face  above  the 

door ; 

Painted  by  some  humble  artist,   as    in   Adam    Pusch- 

man's  song. 
As  the  old    man   gray  and  dove-like,   with    his   great 

beard  white  and  long. 

And  at  night  the  swart  mechanic  comes  to  drown  his 
cark  and  care, 

Quaflling  ale  from  pewter  tankards,  in  the  master's  an- 
tique chair. 


•330  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Vanished    is    the    ancient    splendor,    and    before    my 

dreamy  eye 
Wave  these  mingling  shapes  and  figures,  like  a  faded 

tapestry. 

Not  thy  Councils,  not  thy  Kaisers,   win  for  thee  the 

world's  regard. 
But  thy  painter,  Albrecht  Diirer,  and  Hans  Sachs  thy 

cobbler-bard. 

Thus,   O  Nuremberg,  a  wanderer   from    a  region  far 

away. 
As   he   paced   thy    streets    and   court-yards,   sang  in 

thought  his  careless  lay : 

Gathering  from  the  pavement's  crevice,  as  a  floweret 

of  the  soil. 
The  nobiUty  of  labor,  —  the  long  pedigree  of  toil. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow, 


THE   HIGH   TIDE    ON   THE    COAST    OF 
LINCOLNSHIRE. 

The  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  tower. 
The  ringers  ran  by  two,  by  three; 
"  Pull,  if  ye  never  pulled  before; 

Good  ringers,  pull  your  best,"  quoth  he. 
"  Play  up,  play  up,  O  Boston  bells! 
Ply  all  your  changes,  all  your  swells. 
Play  up  '  The  Brides  of  Enderby  ' !  " 

Men  say  it  was  a  stolen  tide,  — 

The  Lord  that  sent  it,  He  knows  all; 


"  Pull  if  ye  never  pulled  before"      See  p.  330. 


HIGH  TIDE  IN  LINCOLNSHIRE.       331 

But  in  mine  ears  doth  still  abide 

The  message  that  the  bells  let  fall: 
And  there  was  nought  of  strange,  beside 
The  flights  of  mews  and  peewits  pied. 
By  millions  crouched  on  the  old  sea-walL 

I  sat  and  spun  within  the  door, 

My  thread  brake  off,  T  raised  mine  eyes; 

The  level  sun,  like  ruddy  ore, 
Lay  sinking  in  the  barren  skies; 

And  dark  against  day's  golden  death 

She  moved  where  Lindis  wandereth,  — 

My  son's  fair  wife,  Elizabeth. 

"  Cusha!  Cusha  !  Cusha!  "  calling, 

Ere  the  early  dews  were  falling, 

Far  away  I  heard  her  song. 
"Cusha!  Cusha!"  all  along; 

Where  the  reedy  Lindis  floweth, 
Floweth,  floweth, 

From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth 

Faintly  came  her  milkmg-song. 

"  Cusha!  Cusha  !  Cusha  I  "  calling, 
"  For  the  dews  will  soon  be  falling ; 

Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 
Mellow,  mellow; 

Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow  ; 

Come  up,  VVhitefoot,  come  up,  Lightfoot, 

Quit  the  stalks  of  parsley  hollow, 
Hollow,  hollow; 

Come  up.  Jetty,  rise  and  follow. 

From  the  clovers  lift  your  head ; 

Come  up,  Whitefoot,  come  up,  Lightfoot, 

Come  up,  Jetiy,  rise  and  follow, 

Jetty,  to  the  milking-shed." 


332  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

If  it  be  long,  aye,  long  ago, 

When  I  begin  to  think  how  long, 
Again  I  hear  the  Lindis  flow, 

Swift  as  an  arrow,  sharp  and  strong; 
And  all  the  air  it  seeraeth  me 
Is  full  of  floating  bells  (saith  she), 
That  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby. 

All  fresh  the  level  pasture  lay, 
And  not  a  shadow  might  be  seen, 

Save  wliere  full  five  good  miles  away 
The  steeple  towered  from  out  the  green; 

And  lo  !  the  great  bell  far  and  wide 

Was  heard  in  all  the  country  side 

That  Saturday  at  eventide. 

The  swannerds  where  their  sedges  are 
Moved  on  in  sunset's  golden  breath. 
The  shepherd  lads  I  heard  afar, 
And  my  son's  wife,  Elizabeth; 
Till  floating  o'er  the  grassy  sea 
Came  down  that  kindly  message  free, 
The  "  Brides  of  Mavis  Enderby." 


Then  some  looked  up  into  the  sky. 
And  all  along  where  Lindis  flows 

To  where  the  goodly  vessels  lie, 

And  where  the  lordly  stee[)le  shows. 

They  said,   "  And  why  should  this  thing  be? 

What  danger  lowers  by  land  or  sea  ? 

They  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby! 

"  For  evil  news  from  Mablethorpe, 
Of  pirate  galleys  warping  down; 
For  ships  ashore  beyond  the  scorpe, 

They  have  not  spared  to  wake  the  town; 


HIGH  TIDE  IN  LINCOLNSHIRE.       333 

But  while  the  west  is  red  to  see, 
And  storms  be  none,  and  pirates  flee. 
Why  ring  '  The  Brides  of  Enderby  '  ?  " 

I  looked  without,  and  lo!  my  son 

Came  riding  down  with  might  and  main. 

He  raised  a  shout  as  he  drew  on. 
Till  all  the  welkin  rang  again, 
"Elizabeth!   Elizabeth!" 

(A  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  son's  wife,  Elizabeth.) 

"  The  old  sea  wall  (he  cried)  is  down, 
The  rising  tide  conies  on  apace. 
And  boats  adrift  in  yonder  town 

Go  sailing  up  the  market-place." 
He  shook  as  one  that  looks  on  death : 
"  God  save  you,  mother!"  straight  he  saith; 
"  Where  is  vay  wife,  Elizabeth?  " 

"  Good  son,  where  Lindis  winds  away 

With  her  two  bairns  I  marked  her  long; 
And  ere  yon  bells  began  to  play, 

Afar  I  heard  her  milking  song." 
He  looked  across  the  grassy  sea, 
To  right,  to  left,  "  Ho  Enderby!  " 
They  rang  "  The  Brides  of  Enderby!  " 

With  that  he  cried  and  beat  his  breast; 

For  lo!  along  the  river's  bed 
A  mighty  eygre  reared  his  crest, 

And  up  the  Lindis  raging  sped. 
It  swept  with  thunderous  noises  loud; 
Shaped  like  a  curling  snow-white  cloud, 
Or  like  a  demon  in  a  shroud. 


334  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

And  rearing  Lindis,  backward  pressed, 
Shook  all  her  trembling  banks  amain; 
I'lien  madly  at  the  eygre's  breast 

Flung  up  her  weltering  walls  again. 
Then  banks  came  down  with  ruin  and  rout, — 
Then  beaten  foam  flew  round  about,  — 
Then  all  the  mighty  floods  were  out. 

So  far,  so  fast  the  eygre  drave, 

The  heart  had  hardly  time  to  beat, 

Before  a  shallow  seething  wave 
Sobbed  in  the  gi'asses  at  our  feet: 

The  feet  had  hardly  time  to  flee 

Before  it  brake  against  the  knee, 

And  all  the  world  was  in  the  sea. 

Upon  the  roof  we  sat  that  night. 

The  noise  of  bells  went  sweeping  by: 

I  marked  the  lofty  beacon  light 

Stream  from  the  church  tower,  red  and  high, 

A  lurid  mark  and  dread  to  see  ; 

And  awsome  bells  they  were  to  me, 

That  in  the  dark  rang  "  Enderby." 

They  rang  the  sailor  lads  to  guide 

From  roof  to  roof  who  fearless  rowed; 

And  I,  —  my  son  was  at  my  side, 
And  yet  the  ruddy  beacon  glowed : 

And  yet  he  moaned  beneath  his  breath, 
"  O  come  in  life,  or  come  in  death! 

O  lost!  my  love,  Elizabeth." 

And  :lidst  thou  visit  him  no  more? 

Thou  didst,  thou  didst,  my  daughter  dearl 
The  waters  laid  thee  at  his  door, 


HIGH  TIDE  IN  LINCOLNSHIRE.       o35 

Ere  yet  the  early  dawn  was  clear. 
Thy  pretty  bairns  in  fast  embrace, 
The  lifted  sun  shone  on  thy  face, 
Down  drifted  to  thy  dwelling-place. 

That  flow  strewed  wrecks  about  the  grass  ; 

That  ebb  swept  out  the  flocks  to  sea; 
A  fatal  ebb  and  flow,  alas! 

To  many  more  than  mine  and  me: 
But  each  will  mourn  his  own  (she  saith). 
And  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 
Than  my  son's  wife,  Elizabeth. 

I  shall  never  hear  her  more 

By  the  reedy  Lindis'  shore, 
"  Cusha,  Cusha,  Cusha !  "  calling, 

Ere  the  early  dews  be  falling; 

I  shall  never  hear  her  song, 
"  Cusha!  Cusha!  "  all  along, 

Where  the  sunny  Lindis  floweth, 
Goeth,  floweth; 

From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth, 

When  the  water,  winding  down. 

Onward  floweth  to  the  town. 

I  shall  never  see  her  more 

Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  quiver, 

Shiver,  quiver: 
Stand  beside  the  sobbing  river. 
Sobbing,  throbbing,  in  its  falling. 
To  the  sandy  lonesome  shore  ; 
I  shall  never  hear  her  calling, 
"  Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 
Mellow,  mellow; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow; 


336  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Come  up,  Whitefoot,  come  up,  Lightfoot; 
Quit  your  pipes  of  parsley  hollow, 

Hollow,  hollow; 
Come  up,  Lightfoot,  rise  and  follow; 

Lightfoot,  Whitefoot, 
From  your  clovers  lift  the  head ; 
Come  up,  Jetty,  follow,  follow, 
Jetty,  to  the  milking  shed." 

Jean  Ingelow.^ 


QUA  CURSUM  VENTUS. 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 

Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day 

Are  scarce,  long  leagues  apart,  descried; 

When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied. 

Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  self- same  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side  : 

E'en  so  —  but  why  the  tale  reveal 

Of  those  whom,  year  by  year  unchanged, 

Brief  absence  joined  anew  to  feel. 

Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged? 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  filled. 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered  : 

1  Jkan  Ingei.ow  was  born  in  Ipswich,  Suffolk,  England 
about  1830.  She  has  written  niany  poems,  and  some  novels 
which  have  attained  popnlavity. 


FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY   OF  AGASSIZ.     337 

All,  neither  blame,  for  neither  willed, 
Or  wist,  what  first  with  dawn  appeared  I 

To  veer,  how  vain  !     On,  onward  strain, 
Brave  barks  !  In  light,  in  darkness  too, 

Through  winds  and  tides  one  compass  guides,  — 
To  that,  and  your  own  selves,  be  true  ! 

But  O  blithe  breeze,  and  O  great  seas, 
Though  ne'er,  that  earliest  parting  past, 

On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again. 
Together  lead  them  home  at  last. 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought. 
One  purpose  hold  where'er  they  fare,  — 

O  bounding  breeze,  O  rushing  seas  ! 
At  last,,  at  last,  unite  them  there  ! 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough. 


THE  FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY  OF  AGASSIZ. 

MAY  28,  1857. 

It  was  fifty  years  ago 

In  the  pleasant  month  of  May, 

In  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud, 
A  child  in  its  cradle  lay. 

And  Nature,  the  old  nurse,  took 

The  child  upon  her  knee, 
Savin"-  :   "  Here  is  a  story-book 

Thy  Father  has  written  for  thee." 
22 


888  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

"  Come,  -wander  with  me,"  she  said, 
"  Into  regions  yet  untrod  ; 
And  read  what  is  still  unread 
In  the  manuscripts  of  God." 

And  he  wandered  away  and  away 
With  Nature,  the  dear  old  nurse. 

Who  sang  to  him  night  and  day 
The  rhjmes  of  the  universe. 

And  whenever  the  way  seemed  lonof, 

Or  his  heart  began  to  fail, 
She  would  sing  a  more  wonderful  sonor, 

Or  tell  a  more  marvellous  tale. 

So  she  keeps  him  still  a  child, 

And  will  not  let  him  go, 
Though  at  times  his  heart  beats  wild 

For  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud  ; 

Though  at  times  he  hears  in  his  dreams 
The  Rauz  des  Vaches  of  old. 

And  the  rush  of  mountain  streams 
From  glaciers  clear  and  cold  ; 

And  the  mother  at  home  says,  "  Hark  ! 

For  his  voice  I  listen  and  yearn  ; 
It  is  growing  late  and  dark, 

And  my  boy  does  not  return  I  " 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


NEW   YEAR'S  EVE.  3o9 

NEW  YEAR'S   EVE. 

CVI. 

Ring  out,  wild  bell?,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night  ; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new. 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow  : 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go  ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  gi-ief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more  ; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor. 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause, 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife  ; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times  ; 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes, 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood. 

The  civic  slander  and  the  spite; 

Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right. 
Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease; 
Ring  out  till'  harrowing  lust  of  gold; 


S40  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 
Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

In  Memoriam. 


BREAK,  BREAK. 

Break,  break,  break. 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play ! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand. 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still! 


Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  0  Sea! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


A  PSALM  OF  LIFE.  841 


A  PSALM   OF   LIFE. 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 
Life  is  but  an  empty  dream ! 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real!     Life  is  earnest! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal; 
Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 
Is  our  destined  end  or  way; 

But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 
Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle. 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead! 
Act  —  act  in  the  living  Present! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erliead ! 

it 

»  Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 

I  We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 


342  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time,  — 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate  ; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfp:llow. 


THE    SHIP. 

O  SHIP,  ship,  ship, 

That  travellest  over  the  sea. 
What  are  the  tidings,  I  pray  thee, 

Thou  bearest  hither  to  meV 

Are  they  tidings  of  comfort  and  joy, 
That  shall  make  me  seem  to  see 

The  sweet  lips  softly  moving 
And  whispering  love  to  me? 

Or  are  they  of  trouble  and  grief. 
Estrangement,  sorrow,  and  doubt. 

To  turn  into  torture  my  hopes. 
And  drive  me  from  Paradise  out? 

O  ship,  ship,  ship, 

That  comest  over  the  sea. 


SIR    GALAHAD.  343 

Whatever  it  be  thou  bringest, 
Come  quickly  with  it  to  me. 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough. 


SIR  GALAHAD. 


My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men, 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel, 
The  splinter'd  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly, 

Tlie  horse  and  rider  reel  : 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists. 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands, 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers. 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies' hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favors  fall  ! 
For  them  I  battle  till  the  end, 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall: 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

My  knees  are  bow'd  in  crypt  and  shrine 
I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love, 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine. 
More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam. 

Me  mightier  transports  move  and  thrill ; 
So  keep  I  fair  thro'  faith  and  prayer 

A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 


344  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes, 

A  light  before  me  swims, 
Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hymns  : 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I  ride ; 

I  hear  a  voice,  but  none  are  there  ; 
The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide, 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 
Fair  o-leams  the  snowy  altar  cloth, 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean, 
The  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings, 

And  solemn  chaunts  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meres 

I  find  a  magic  bark  ; 
I  leap  on  board  :  no  helmsman  steers  : 

I  float  till  all  is  dark. 
A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light  ! 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail : 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white. 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
Ah,  blessed  vision  !  blood  of  God  I 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides. 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars. 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 

Thro'  dreaming  towns  I  go. 
The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  morn, 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads. 

And,  i-inging,  springs  from  brand  and  mail; 
But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads. 

And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height ; 


SIR    GALAHAD.  345 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields  ; 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 
Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields. 

A  maiden  knight  —  to  me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear ; 
I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease, 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams. 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace. 

Whose  odors  haunt  my  dreams  ; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand, 

This  mortal  armor  that  I  wear, 
This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and  eyes, 

Are  touch'd,  are  turn'd  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky, 

And  thro'  the  mountain-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

^Vings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear  : 
O  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God  ! 

Ride  on  !  the  prize  is  near." 
So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange  ; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
AU-arm'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide. 

Until  I  find  the  holy  Grail. 

Alfked  Tknnyson. 


346 


BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


THE   HAPPIEST   LAND. 

FROM    THE    GERMAN. 

The  HE  sat  one  day  in  quiet, 
By  an  alehouse  on  the  Rhine, 

Four  hale  and  hearty  fellows, 
And  drank  the  precious  wine. 

The  landlord's  daughter  filled  their  cups, 

Around  the  rustic  board; 
Tlien  sat  they  all  so  calm  and  still, 

And  spake  not  one  rude  word. 

But  when  the  maid  departed, 

A  Swabian  raised  his  hand. 
And  cried,  all  hot  and  flushed  with  wine, 

"  Long  live  the  Swabian  land! 

"  The  greatest  kingdom  upon  earth 
Cannot  with  that  compare ; 
With  all  the  stout  and  hardy  men. 
And  the  nut-brown  maidens  there." 

"  Ha!  "  cried  a  Saxon,  laughing, 

And  dashed  his  beard  with  wine ; 

"  I  had  rather  live  in  Lapland, 

Than  that  Swabian  land  of  thine ! 


"  The  goodliest  land  on  all  this  earth, 
It  is  the  Saxon  land! 
There  have  I  as  many  maidens 
As  fingers  on  this  hand!  " 


ST.  AGNES'  EVE.  347 

"  Hold  your  tongues!  both  Swabian  and  Saxon!  " 

A  bold  Bohemian  cries; 
"  If  there  's  a  heaven  upon  this  earth, 

In  Bohemia  it  lies. 

"  There  the  tailor  blows  the  flute, 
And  the  cobbler  blows  the  horn, 
And  the  miner  blows  the  bugle, 
Over  mountain  gorge  and  bourn." 

And  then  the  landlord's  daughter 

Up  to  heaven  raised  her  hand, 
And  said,  "  Ye  may  no  more  contend, 

There  lies  the  happiest  land!  " 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


ST.  AGNES'   EVE. 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 

Are  sparkling  to  the  moon: 
My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapor  goes: 

May  my  soul  follow  soon ! 
The  sha(l(jws  of  the  convent-towers 

Slant  down  the  snowy  sward, 
Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 

That  lead  me  to  my  Lord : 
Make  Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 

As  are  the  frosty  skies, 
Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  year 

That  in  my  bosom  lies. 

As  these  white  robes  are  soil'd  and  dark 
To  yonder  shining  ground; 


348  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark, 

To  yonder  argent  round; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My  spirit  before  Thee; 
So  in  my  earthly  house  I  am, 

To  that  I  hope  to  be. 
Break  up  the  heavens,  O  Lord!  and  far, 

Thro'  all  yon  starlight  keen. 
Draw  me,  thy  bride,  a  glittering  star, 

Li  raiment  white  and  clean. 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors; 

The  flashes  come  aftd  go; 
All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors, 

And  strows  her  light  below, 
And  deepens  on  and  up!  the  gates 

Roll  back,  and  far  within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waits, 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The  sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  sabbath  deep  and  wide  — 
A  light  upon  the  shining  sea  — 

The  Bridegroom  with  his  bride! 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


THE   ROPEWALK. 

In  that  building,  long  and  low, 
With  its  windows  all  a-row. 

Like  the  port-holes  of  a  hulk, 
Human  spiders  spin  and  spin. 
Backward  down  their  threads  so  thin 

Dropping,  each  a  hempen  bulk. 


TEE  ROPE  WALK.  349 

At  the  end,  an  open  door; 
Squares  of  sunshine  on  the  floor 

Light  the  long  and  dusky  lane; 
And  the  whirring  of  a  wheel, 
Dull  and  drowsy,  makes  me  feel 

All  its  spokes  are  in  my  brain. 

As  the  spinners  to  the  end 
Downward  go  and  reascend, 

Gleam  the  long  threads  in  the  sua; 
While  within  this  brain  of  mine 
Cobwebs  brighter  and  more  fine 

By  the  busy  wheel  are  spun. 

Two  fair  maidens  in  a  swing, 
Like  white  doves  upon  the  wing, 

First  before  my  vision  pass; 
Laughing,  as  their  gentle  hands 
Closely  clasp  the  twisted  strands, 

At  their  shadow  on  the  grass, 

Then  a  booth  of  mountebanks. 
With  its  smell  of  tan  and  planks, 

And  a  girl  poised  high  in  air 
On  a  cord,  in  spangled  dress, 
With  a  faded  loveliness, 

And  a  weary  look  of  care. 

Then  a  homestead  among  farms. 
And  a  woman  with  bare  arms 

Drawing  water  from  a  well; 
As  the  backet  mounts  apace. 
With  it  mounts  her  own  fair  face, 

As  at  some  magician's  spell. 


850  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Then  an  old  man  in  a  tower, 
Ringing  loud  the  noontide  hour, 

While  the  rope  coils  i-ound  and  round 
Like  a  serpent  at  his  feet, 
And  again,  in  swift  retreat, 

Nearly  lifts  him  from  the  ground. 

Then  within  a  prison-yard. 
Faces  fixed,  and  stern,  and  hard, 

Laughter  and  indecent  mirth; 
Ah!  it  is  the  gallows-tree  ! 
Breath  of  Christian  charity. 

Blow,  and  sweep  it  from  the  earth! 

Then  a  school-boy,  with  his  kite 
Gleaming  in  a  sky  of  light, 

And  an  eager,  upward  look ; 
Steeds  pursued  through  lane  and  field; 
Fowlers  with  their  snares  concealed  ; 

And  an  angler  by  a  brook. 

Ships  rejoicing  in  the  breeze, 
Wrecks  that  float  o'er  unknown  seas, 

Anchors  dragged  through  faithless  sand; 
Sea-fog  drifting  overhead. 
And,  with  lessening  line  and  lead, 

Sailors  feeling  for  the  land. 

All  these  scenes  do  I  behold. 
These  and  many  left  untold. 

In  that  building  long  and  low  ; 
While  the  wheel  goes  round  and  round, 
With  a  drowsy,  dreamy  sound, 

And  the  spinners  backward  go. 

Henry  Wads  worth  Longfellow. 


Slilps  rcjuiLiiig  ill  ihe  breeze  ''     Sec  p.  no. 


THE  FORCED  RECRUIT..  351 

THE  FORCED  RECRUIT. 

SOLPERINO,    1859. 

In  the  ranks  of  the  Austrian  you  found  him, 

He  died  with  his  face  to  you  all; 
Yet  bury  him  here  where  around  him 

You  honor  your  bravest  that  fall. 

Venetian,  fair- featured  and  slender. 

He  lies  shot  to  death  in  his  youth, 
With  a  smile  on  his  lips  over-tender 

For  any  mere  soldier's  dead  mouth. 

No  stranger,  and  yet  not  a  traitor, 
Though  alien  the  cloth  on  his  breast, 

Underneath  it  how  seldom  a  greater 
Young  heart  has  a  shot  sent  to  rest! 

By  your  enemy  tortured  and  goaded 
To  march  with  them,  stand  in  their  file, 

His  musket  (see)  never  was  loaded, 
He  facing  your  guns  with  that  smile! 

As  orphans  yearn  on  to  their  mothers, 
He  3'earned  to  vour  patriot  bands: 
"  Let  rae  die  for  our  Italy,  brothers, 

If  not  in  your  ranks,  by  your  hands! 

"Aim  straightly,  fire  steadily!  spare  me 
A  ball  in  th(!  body  which  may 
Deliver  my  heart  here,  and  tear  me 
This  badge  of  the  Austrian  away!  " 


362  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

So  thought  he,  so  died  he  this  morning. 

What  then  ?  many  others  have  died. 
Ay,  but  easy  for  men  to  die  scorning 

The  death-stroke,  who  fought  side  by  side, 

One  tricolor  floating  above  them; 

Struck  down  by  triumphant  acclaims 
Of  an  Italy  rescued  to  love  them 

And  blazon  the  brass  with  their  names. 

But  he,  without  witness  or  honor, 

Mixed,  shamed  in  his  country's  regard, 

With  the  tyrants  who  march  in  upon  her, 
Died  faithful  and  passive  ;  't  was  hard. 

'T  was  sublime.     In  a  cruel  restriction 

Cut  off  from  the  guerdon  of  sons. 
With  most  filial  obedience,  conviction, 

His  soul  kissed  the  lips  of  her  guns. 

That  moves  you?     Nay,  grudge  not  to  show  it, 
While  digging  a  grave  for  him  here  : 

The  others  who  died,  says  your  poet, 
Have  glory,  —  let  him  have  a  tear. 

Elizabeth  Baurktt  Browning.^ 

1  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  the  daughter  of  Mr 
Barrett,  a  wealthy  London  merchant,  was  bom  in  Ledbury, 
about  1807.  She  began  to  write  verses  while  still  a  child,  and 
displayed  strong  literary  tastes.  She  speedily  acquired  reputa- 
tion both  for  her  learning  and  for  her  writings.  In  1846  she 
married  Eobert  Browning.  She  wrote  many  poems,  both  long 
and  short,  of  varying  merit,  some  of  a  very  high  order,  and 
published  some  translations  from  the  Greek.  She  died  in  Flor- 
.enre,  in  1861. 


THE   CUMBERLAND. 


THE  CUMBERLAND. 

At  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay, 

On  board  of  the  Cumberland,  sloop-of-war; 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the  liay 
The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 
Or  a  bugle  blast 
From  the  camp  on  the  shore. 

Then  far  away  to  the  south  up  rose 

A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke. 
And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our  foes 
Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort; 
Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke  from  her  guns, 
And  leaps  the  terrible  death. 
With  fiery  breath. 
From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 

Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside! 
As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate. 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 

"  Strike  your  flag!"   the  rebel  cries, 

In  his  arrogant  old  jjlantation  strain. 
"  Never!  "  our  gallant  Morris  replies; 

"  It  is  better  to  .-ink  than  l.>  yield!  " 
23 


354  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men. 


Then,  like  a  kraken  huge  and  black, 

She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp! 
Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a  wrack, 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 

Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast  head. 
Lord,  how  beautiful  was  Thy  day! 
Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 


Ho!  brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the  seas! 

Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream; 
Ho!  brave  land!  with  hearts  like  these, 
Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain. 
Shall  be  one  again. 
And  without  a  seam! 

Henky  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


JONATHAN  TO  JO  UN.  355 


JONATHAN   TO  JOHN.i 

It  don't  seem  hardly  right,  John, 
When  both  my  hands  was  full, 
To  stump  me  to  a  fight,  John,  — 
Your  cousin,  tu,  John  Bull! 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  1  guess 
We  know  it  now,"  sez  he, 
"  The  lion's  paw  is  all  the  law, 
Accordin'  to  J.  B., 
Thet  's  fit  for  you  an'  me!" 

You  wonder  why  we  're  hot,  John  ? 

Your  mark  wuz  on  the  guns. 
The  neutral  guns,  thet  shot,  John, 
Our  brotliers  an'  our  sons  : 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
There  's  human  blood,"  sez  he, 
"  By  fits  an'  starts,  in  Yankee  hearts, 
Though  't  may  surprise  J.  B. 
More  'n  it  would  you  an'  me." 

Ef  /  turned  mad  dogs  loose,  John, 
On  your  front-parlor  stairs, 

1  This  poem  refers  to  the  period  of  our  difliciilties  with  Eng- 
land after  what  was  known  as  the  "Trent  affair."  November 
19,  1861,  Captain  Wilkes,  in  command  of  the  Federal  war 
steamer  San  Jacinto,  boarded  the  Britisli  mail  packet  Trent, 
and  took  out  the  ambassadors  of  the  Soutliern  Confederacy, 
Mason  and  Slidell,  who  were  on  their  way  to  Knf;huid.  This 
was  a  gross  infraction  of  neutral  rights,  and  President  Lincohi 
wisely  gave  up  the  prisoners.  But  the  hostile  attitude  of  Eng- 
land and  her  sympathy  with  the  South  excited  just  and  deep  in- 
dignation on  the  part  of  the  United  States.  England,  after  the 
war,  expiated  her  conduct  by  the  treaty  of  Washington  and  by 
the  award  of  the  Geneva  arbitration. 


356  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

AVould  it  jest  meet  your  views,  John, 
To  wait  an'  sue  their  heirs  ? 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 

I  on'y  guess,"  sez  he, 
"  Thet  ef  Vattel  on  his  toes  fell, 

'T  would  kind  o'  vile  J.  B., 

Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me  !  " 

Who  made  the  law  thet  hurts,  John, 
Heads  I  win,  —  ditto  tails  ? 
"J.  5."  was  on  his  shirts,  John, 
Onless  my  memory  fails. 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
(I  'm  good  at  thet),"  sez  he, 
"  Thet  sauce  for  goose  ain't  Jest  the  juice 
For  ganders  with  J.  B., 
No  more  'n  with  you  an'  me!  " 

When  your  rights  was  our  wrongs,  John, 

You  did  n't  stop  for  fuss,  — 
Britanny's  trident  prongs,  John, 
Was  good  'nough  law  for  us. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 
Though  physic's  good,"  sez  he, 
"  It  does  n't  foller  thet  he  can  swaller 
Prescriptions  signed  'J.  B.,' 
Put  up  by  you  an'  me!  " 

We  own  the  ocean,  tu,  John: 

You  mus'  n'  take  it  hard, 
Ef  we  can't  think  with  you,  John, 
It 's  jest  your  own  back-yard. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 
Ef  thet  's  his  claim,"  sez  he, 
"  The  fencin'-stuff  '11  cost  enousrh 


JONATHAN  TO  JOHN.  357 

To  bust  up  friend  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me!  " 

Why  talk  so  dreffle  big,  John, 

Of  honor,  when  it  meant 

You  did  n't  care  a  fig,  John, 

But  jest  for  ten  per  cent  ? 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
He  's  like  the  rest,"  sez  he: 
"  When  all  is  done  it 's  number  one 
Thet  's  nearest  to  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  t'  you  an'  me!" 

We  give  the  critters  back,  John, 

Cos  Abram  thought  't  was  right; 
It  warn't  your  bullyin'  clack,  John, 
Provokin'  us  to  fight. 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
We  've  a  hard  row,"  sez  he, 
"  To  hoe  jest  now;  but  thet,  somehow. 
May  happen  to  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me!  " 

We  ain't  so  weak  an'  poor,  John, 

With  twenty  million  people. 
An'  close  to  every  door,  John, 
A  school-house  an'  a  steeple. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
It  is  a  fact,"  sez  he, 
"  The  surest  plan  to  make  a  man 
Is,  Think  him  so,  J.  B., 
Ez  much  ez  you  or  me!  " 

Our  folks  believe  in  Law,  John; 
An'  it 's  for  her  sake  now. 


358  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Tbey  've  left  the  axe  an'  saw,  John, 
The  anvil  an'  the  plough. 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess, 

Ef  't  warn't  for  law,"  sez  he, 
"  There 'd  be  one  shindy  from  here  to  Indy; 

An'  thet  don't  suit  J.  B. 

(When  't  ain't  'twixt  you  an'  me!)  " 

We  know  we  've  got  a  cause,  John, 

Thet  's  honest,  just,  an'  true; 
We  thought  't  would  win  applause,  John, 
Ef  nowheres  else,  from  you. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
His  love  of  rights,"  sez  he, 
"  Hangs  by  a  rotten  fibre  o'  cotton: 
There's  natur'  in  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me!" 

The  South  says,  "  Poor  folks  down!  "  Johu, 

An'  ''All  men  up  !  ^'  say  we,  — 
White,  yaller,  black,  an'  brown,  John: 
Now  which  is  your  idee  ? 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess, 
John  preaches  wal,"  sez  he; 
"  But,  sermon  thru,  an'  come  to  du 
Why,  there  's  the  old  J.  B. 
A  crowdin'  you  an'  me  ! " 

Shall  it  be  love,  or  hate,  John  ? 

It 's  you  thet 's  to  decide; 
Ain't  yow  bonds  held  by  Fate,  John, 
Like  all  the  world's  beside? 
Ole  Uncle  S.,  sez  he,  "I  guess 
Wise  men  forgive,"  sez  he, 
"  But  not  forget;  an'  some  time  yet 


■OEfiuejisi 


BARBARA  FRIETCHIE.  359 

Thet  truth  may  strike  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  jou  an'  me!  " 

God  means  to  make  this  land,  John, 

Clear  thru,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Believe  an'  understand,  John, 
The  ivuth   o'  bein'  fi-ee. 

Ole  Uncle  S.,  sez  he,  "I  guess 
God's  price  is  high,"  sez  he; 
"  But  nothin'  else  than  wut  He  sells 
Wears  long,  an'  thet  J.  B. 
May  lam,  like  you  an'  me  !  " 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


BARBARA  FRIETCHIE. 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep,  — 

Fair  as  the  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  tlio  early  fall 

When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain-wall, — 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 


360  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind:  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down ; 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced :  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"  Halt  I  "  —  The  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast. 
*'  Fire  !  "  —  Out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash ; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf. 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

♦'  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 


'  She  leaned  iir  out  on  the  window  sill.''     See  p   360. 


BARBARA  FRIETCHIE.  361 

.  A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came ; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word  : 

*  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog !  March  on  !  "  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tramp  of  marching  feet  : 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well ; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er 

And  the  rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her  I  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave  1 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town  1 

John  Grkenlkaf  Wiiittikr. 


362 


BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


THE   OLD    SERGEANT. 

JANUARY  1,  1863. 

The  Carrier  cannot  sing  to-day  the  ballads 

With  which  he  used  to  go, 
Rhyming  the  glad  rounds  of  the  happy  New  Years 

That  are  now  beneath  the  snow: 

For  the  same  awful  and  portentous  Shadow 

That  overcast  the  earth, 
And  smote  the  land  last  year  with  desolation, 

Still  darkens  every  hearth. 

And  the  Carrier  hears  Beethoven's  mighty  death-march 

Come  up  from  every  mart ; 
And  he  hears  and  feels  it  breathing  in  his  bosom, 

And  beatino:  in  his  heart. 


And  to-day,  a  scarred  and  weather-beaten  veteran 

Again  he  comes  along, 
To  tell  the  story  of  the  Old  Year's  struggles 

In  another  New  Year's  song. 

A.nd  the  song  is  his,  but  not  so  with  the  story  ; 

For  the  story,  you  must  know, 
Was  told  in  prose  to  Assistant-Surgeon  Austin, 

By  a  soldier  of  Shiloh: 

By  Robert  Burton,  who  was  brought  up  on  the  Adams, 
With  his  death- wound  in  his  side  ; 

And  who  told  the  story  to  the  Assistant-Surgeon, 
On  the  same  night  that  he  died. 

But  the  singer  feels  it  will  better  suit  the  ballad, 
If  all  should  deem  it  right. 


THE   OLD  SERGEANT.  363 

To  tell  the  story  as  if  what  it  speaks  of 
Had  happened  but  last  night. 


"  Come  a  little  nearer,  Doctor,  —  thank  you,  —  let  me 

take  the  cup: 
Draw  your  chair  up, — draw  it  closer, — just  another 

little  sup! 
May  be  you  may  think  I  'm  better;  but  I  'm  pretty  well 

used  up,  — 
Doctor,  you've  done  al!  you  could  do,  but  I'm  just 

a-going  up! 

"  Feel  my  pulse,  sir,  if  you  want  to,  but  it  ain't  much 

use  to  try  "  — 
"  Never  say  that,"  said  the   Surgeon,  as  he  smothered 

down  a  sigh; 
"  It  will  never  do,  old   comrade,  for  a  soldier  to  say 

die!" 
"  What  you  say  will  make  no  difference,  Doctor,  when 

you  come  to  die." 

"Doctor,   what   has  been  the  matter?"   "You  were 

very  faint,  they  say; 
You  must  try  to  get  to  sleep  now."  "  Doctor,  have  I 

been  away?  " 
"  Not  that   anybody  knows   of!"   "Doctor  —  Doctor, 

please  to  stay! 
There   is    something  I  must  tell   you,  and   you  won't 

have  long  to  stay! 

"  I  have  got  my  marching  orders,  and  I  'm  ready  now 

to  go; 
Doctor,  did  you  say  I   fainted?  —  but  it  could  n't  ha' 

been  so, — 


364 


BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


For  as  sure  as  I  'm   a  Sergeant,  and  was  wounded  at 

Shiloh, 
I  've  this  very  night  been  back  there,  on  the  old  field 

of  Shiloh! 

'*  This    is   all   that   I  remember:   The   last  time   the 

Lighter  came, 
And  the   lights  had  all  been  lowered,  and  the  noises 

much  the  same. 
He  had  not  been  gone  five   minutes  before  something 

called  my  name: 
'  Orderly  Sergeant  —  Robert  Burton!  '  —  just 

that  way  it  called  my  name. 

"  And  I  wondered  who  could  call  me  so  distinctly  and 

so  slow. 
Knew  it  could  n't  be  the  Lighter,  —  he  could  not  have 

spoken  so,  — 
And  I   tried   to    answer,   'Here,  sir! 'but  I  couldn't 

make  it  go; 
For  I  could  n't  move  a  muscle,  and  I  could  n't  make  it 

go. 

"  Then  I  thought:  It's  all  a  nightmare,  all  a  humbug 

and  a  bore; 
Just  another  foolish  grape-vine''- — and   it  won't  come 

any  more; 
But  it  came,  sir,  notwithstanding,  just  the  same  way 

as  before: 
Orderly  Sergeant  —  Robert  Burton!'  —  even 

louder  than  before. 


"  That  is  all  that  I  remember,  till  a  sudden  burst  of 
light, 

'  A  false  story,  a  hoax. 


THE   OLD  SERGEANT.  365 

And  I  stood  beside  the  River,  wliere  we  stood  that 

Sunday  night, 
Waiting  to  be  ferried  over  to  the  dark  bluffs  opposite, 
When  the  river  was  perdition  and  all  hell  was  oppo- 
site! — 

"  And  the  same  old  palpitation  came  again  in  all  its 
power, 

And  I  heard  a  Bugle  sounding,  as  from  some  celestial 
Tower; 

And  the  same  mysterious  voice  said:  '  Tt  is  the  Elev- 
enth Hour! 

Orderly  Sergeant  —  Robert  Burton  —  it  is 
THE  Eleventh  Hour!' 

"Doctor     Austin!  —  what     dmj     is     this?"    "It    is 

Wednesday  night,  you  know." 
"Yes, — to-morrow  will  be  New  Year's,  and   a  right 

good  time  below! 
What  time  is  it.  Doctor  Austin?  "    "  Nearly  Twelve." 

"  Then  don't  you  go! 
Can  it  be  that  all  this   happened  —  all  this  —  not  an 

hour  ago! 

'   There  was  where  the  gunboats  opened  on   the  dark 

rebellious  host; 
And  where  Webster  semicircled  his  last  guns  upon  the 

coast; 
There  were  still  the  two  log-houses,  just  the  same,  or 

else  their  ghost  — 
And  the  same  old  transport  came  and  took  me  over  — 

or  its  ghost! 

And  the  old  field  lay  before  me  all  deserted  far  and 
wide ; 


366 


BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 


There  was  where   they  fell  on   Prentiss  —  there  Mc- 

Clernand  met  the  tide ; 
There  was  where   stern   Sherman  rallied,  and  where 

Hurlbut's  heroes  died,  — 
Lower  down,  where  Wallace  charged  them,  and  kept 


"  There  was  where  Lew  Wallace  showed  them  he  was 

of  the  canny  kin, 
There   was   where  old   Nelson   thundered,  and   where 

Rousseau  waded  in ; 
There  McCook  sent  'em  to  breakfast,  and  we  all  began 

to  win  — 
There  was  where  the  grape-shot  took  me,  just  as  we 

began  to  win. 

"  Now,  a  shroud  of  snow  and  silence  over  every thinw 

was  spread; 
And  but  for  this  old  blue  mantle   and  the   old  hat  on 

my  head, 
I  should  not  have  even   doubted,  to  this  moment,  I 

was  dead,  — 
For  my  footsteps   were  as   silent  as  the  snow  upon  the 

dead! 

"  Death  and  silence!  —  Death  and  silence!  all  around 
me  as  I  sped ! 

And  behold,  a  mighty  Tower,  as  if  builded  to  the 
dead, 

To  the  Heaven  of  the  heavens  lifted  up  its  mighty 
head. 

Till  the  Stars  and  Stripes  of  Heaven  all  seemed  wav- 
ing from  its  head ! 


"  Round   and  mighty  based  it  towered  up  into  the  in- 
finite— 


THE  OLD  SERGEANT.  367 

A-iid  I  knew  no  mortal  mason  could  have  built  a  shaft 

so  bright;  i 

For  it  shone  like  solid  sunshine;  and  a  winding  stair  of  ' 

light  I 

Wound  around  it  and  around  it  till  it  wound  clear  out  ' 
of  sight  I 

"And,  behold,  as  I   approached   it  —  with  a  rapt  and  | 

dazzled  stare,  — 

Thinking  that  I   saw  old  comrades  just  ascending  the  ; 

great  Stair,  —  J 

Suddenly  the  solemn  challenge  broke  of  —  '  Halt,  and  j 

who  goes  there !  '  1 

'  I'm  a  friend,'  I  said,  '  if  you  arc.'     '  Then  advance,  ■ 

sh',  to  the  Stair!  '  | 

•'I    advanced!       That    sentry.    Doctor,    was    Elijah  / 

Ballantyne !  — 

First  of  all  to  fall  on  Monday,  after  we  had  formed  the  > 

line  ! —  , 
'  Welcome,  my  old   Sergeant,  welcome!     Welcome  by 

that  countersign!  '  ! 

And  he  pointed  to  the  scar  there,  under  this  old  cloak  , 

of  mine!  i 

1 
'  As  he  grasped  my  hand,  I  shuddered,  thinking  onl)  ^ 

of  the  grave; 
But  he  smiled  and  pointed   upward  with  a  bright  and 

bloodless  glaive: 
'  That 's    the    way,    sir,    to    Head-quarters.'     '  Whai 

Head-quarters?'     'Of  the  Brave.' 
'  But  the  great  Tower  ?  '     '  That  was  builded  of  thi 

great  deeds  of  the  Brave !  ' 


368  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

"Then  a  sudden  shame  came  o'er  me  at  his  uniform 

of  light; 
At  my  own  so  old  and  battered,  and  at  his  so  new  and 

bright ; 
'  Ah! '  said  he,  '  you  have  forgotten  the  new  uniform 

to-niglit,  — 
Hurry  back,  for  you  must  be  here  at  just  twelve  o'clock 

to-night!  ' 

' '  And  the  next  thing  I  remember,  you  were  sitting 

the7-e,  and  I  — 
Doctor —  did  you  hear  a  footstep?    Hark!  —  God  bless 

you  all !     Good-by ! 
Doctor,  please  to  give  my  musket  and  my  knapsack, 

when  I  die. 
To  my  son  —  my  son  that's  coming,  —  he  won't  get 

here  till  I  die! 

"Tell  him  his  old  father  blessed  him  —  as  he  never 

did  before,  — 
And  to  carry  that  old  musket "  —    Hark!  a  knock  is  at 

the  door !  — 
"  Till   the   Union  "  —      See!   it  opens  !  —  "  Father  ! 

Father !  speak  once  more ! ' ' 
"  Bless  you  !  "  —  gasped  the  old,  gray  Sergeant.     And 

he  lay  and  said  no  more ! 

FORCEYTHE    WlLLSON.^ 

1  FoRCEYTHE  WiLLSON  was  bom  in  Little  (Jenesee,  New  York, 
■ji  1837,  and  died  in  Alfred,  New  York,  in  1867  His  fame  rests 
wholly  on  this  poem 


THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD.    369 


THE    ARSENAL   AT  SPRINGFIELD. 

This  is  the  Arsenal.     From  floor  to  ceiliag, 

Like  a  huge  organ,  rise  the  burnished  arms  ; 
But  fi'om  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem  pealing 

Startles  the  villages  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah!  what  a  sound  will  rise,  how  wild  and  dreary, 
When  the  death-angel  touches  those  swift  keys! 

What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  symphonies! 

I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus, 
The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan. 

Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone  before  us, 
In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon  hammer, 
Through  Cimbric  forest  roars  the  Norseman's  song, 

And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamor. 

O'er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar  gong. 

I  liear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  palace 
Wheels  out  his  battle-bell  with  dreadful  din, 

And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 

Beat  the  wild  war-drums  made  of  serpent's  skin ; 

The  tumult  of  each  sackeil  and  burning  vilhige  ; 

The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  morcy  drowns; 
The  soldiers'  revels  in  the  midst  of  pillage; 

The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguered  towns  ; 

riie  bursting  sliell,  the  gateway  wrenched  asunder, 
The  rattling  musketry,  the  clashing  blade; 
24 


370  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS.  \ 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder,  f 

The  diapason  of  the  cannonade.  •  i 

■•     1 

Is  it,  O  man,  with  such  discordant  noises,  <, 

With  such  accursed  instruments  as  these,  \ 

Tliou  drownest  Nature's  sweet  and  kindly  voices,  i 

And  jarrest  the  celestial  harmonies?  I 

Were  half  the  power  that  fills  the  world  with  terror,  *■ 

Were  half  the  wealth  bestowed  on  camps  and  courts,  >■ 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error. 

There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  or  forts :  ': 


The  warrior's  name  would  be  a  name  abhorred!  J 

And  every  nation,  that  should  lift  again 
Its  hand  against  a  brother,  on  its  forehead 

Would  wear  forevermore  the  curse  of  Cain ! 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  generations. 
The  echoing  sounds  grow  fainter  and  then  cease; 

And  like  a  bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibrations, 

I  hear  once  more  the  voice  of  Christ  say,  "  Peace! ' 

Peace!  and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portals 

The  blast  of  War's  great  organ  shakes  the  skies! 

But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals. 
The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 

Hkxry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


BEFORE  SEDAN.  37] 


BEFORE  SEDAN. 

Here,  in  this  leafy  place, 

Quiet  he  lies, 
Cold,  with  his  sightless  face 

Turned  to  the  skies; 
'T  is  but  another  dead; 
All  you  can  say  is  said. 

Carry  his  body  hence,  — 
Kings  must  have  slaves; 

Kings  climb  to  eminence 
Over  men's  graves: 

So  this  man's  eye  is  dim,  — 

Throw  the  earth  over  him. 

AYhat  was  the  white  you  touched. 

There,  at  his  side? 
Paper  his  hand  had  clutched 

Tight  ere  he  died ; 
Message  or  wish,  may  be  ; 
Smooth  the  folds  out,  and  see. 

Hardly  the  worst  of  us 
Here  could  have  smiled! 

Only  the  tremulous 
Words  of  a  child,  — 

Prattle,  that  has  for  stops 

Just  a  few  ruddy  drops. 


I  Look.     She  is  sad  to  miss, 

\  Morning  and  night. 

His  —  her  dead  father's  —  kiss; 
Tries  to  be  bright. 


372  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Good  to  mamma,  and  sweet. 
That  is  all.     "Marguerite." 

Ah,  if  beside  the  dead 

Slumbered  the  pahi! 
Ah,  if  the  hearts  that  bled 

Slept  with  the  slain! 
If  the  grief  died,  —  but  no,  — 
Death  will  not  have  it  so. 

Austin  DoBSO>f.* 


AN  ENVOY  TO  AN  AMERICAN  LADY. 

Bkyond  the  vague  Atlantic  deep. 
Far  as  the  farthest  prairies  sweep. 
Where  forest-glooms  the  nerve  appal. 
Where  burns  the  radiant  Western  fall, 
One  duty  lies  on  old  and  young,  — 
With  filial  piety  to  guard. 
As  on  its  greenest  native  sward. 
The  glory  of  the  English  tongue. 
That  ample  speech!  that  subtle  speech! 
Apt  for  the  need  of  all  and  each: 
Strong  to  endivre,  yet  prompt  to  bend 
Wherever  human  feelings  tend. 
Preserve  its  force,  expand  its  powers; 
And  through  the  maze  of  civic  life, 

'  Austin  Dobson,  bom  in  1840,  is  an  Englisii  poet,  who  has 
recently  come  into  notice  and  acquired  reputation  as  the  author 
of  two  or  three  volumes  of  graceful  verses. 


i- 


THE  END   OF   THE  PLAY.  373 

In  Letters,  Commerce,  even  in  Strife, 
Forget  not  it  is  yours  and  ours. 

Lord  Houghton.^ 


THE  END  OF  THE  PLAY. 

The  play  is  done  ;  the  curtain  drops. 

Slow  falling  to  the  prompter's  bell: 
A  moment  yet  the  actor  stops, 

And  looks  around,  to  say  farewell. 
It  is  an  irksome  word  and  task; 

And,  when  he  's  laughed  and  said  his  say, 
He  shows,  as  he  removes  the  mask, 

A  face  that  's  anything  but  gay. 

One  word,  ere  yet  the  evening  ends. 

Let 's  close  it  with  a  parting  rhyme. 
And  pledge  a  hand  to  all  young  friends, 

As  fits  the  merry  Christmas  time. 
On  life's  wide  scene  you,  too,  have  parts. 

That  Fate  erelong  shall  bid  you  j)Iay ; 
Good  night  1  with  honest  gentle  hearts 

A  kindly  greeting  go  alway  ! 

Good-night  1  —  I'd  say,  the  griefs,  tbe  joys, 
Just  hinted  in  this  mimic  page, 

1  RiciTAitD  MoNCKTON  MiLNES  is  an  Englisli  statesman 
iind  writer.  He  was  born  in  Yorkshire  in  1809,  and  fjtadiiated 
?it  Cambridge  University  in  1831.  He  was  elefted  to  Parlia- 
ment in  1837  for  Pontefract,  wliich  lie  continued  to  represent 
•jntil  1863,  when  he  was  raised  to  tlie  peerage  as  IJaron  Huugii- 
ton. 


!  374  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

i  ■  The  triumphs  and  defeats  of  boys, 

I  Are  but  repeated  in  our  age. 

I  I'd  say,  your  woes  were  not  less  keen, 

^  Your  hopes  more  vain,  than  those  of  men; 

Your  pangs  or  pleasures  of  fifteen 
I  At  forty-five  played  o'er  again. 

I 

i  I  'd  say  we  suffer  and  we  strive 

I  Not  less  nor  more  as  men  than  boys ; 

I  With  grizzled  beards  at  forty-five, 

^  As  erst  at  twelve  in  corduroys. 

'  And  if,  in  time  of  sacred  youth, 

-'  We  learned  at  home  to  love  and  pray, 

;  Pray  Heaven  that  early  Love  and  Truth 

I  May  never  wholly  jjass  away. 

I  And  in  the  world,  as  in  the  school, 

i  I  'd  say,  how  fate  may  change  and  shift  ; 

*  The  prize  be  sometimes  with  the  fool, 

I'  The  race  not  always  to  the  swift. 

j;  The  strong  may  yield,  the  good  may  fall, 

I  The  great  man  be  a  vulgar  clown, 

li  The  knave  be  lifted  over  all, 

I  The  kind  cast  pitilessly  down. 


i 


Who  knows  the  inscrutable  design? 

Blessed  be  He  who  took  and  gave ! 
Why  should  your  mother,  Charles,  not  mine, 

Be  weeping  at  her  darling's  grave  ? 
We  bow  to  Heaven  that  will'd  it  so, 

That  darkly  rules  the  fate  of  all, 
That  sends  the  res[)ite  or  the  blow. 

That 's  free  to  give,  or  to  recall. 

This  crowns  his  feast  with  wine  and  wit: 
Who  brouo-ht  him  to  that  mirth  and  state? 


THE  END   OF  THE  PLAY.  375 

His  betters,  see,  below  him  sit, 

Or  hunger  hopeless  at  the  gate. 
Who  bade  the  mud  from  Dives'  wheel 

To  spurn  the  rags  of  Lazarus? 
Come,  brother,  in  that  dust  we  '11  kneel, 

Confessing  Heaven  that  ruled  it  thus. 

So  each  shall  mourn,  in  life's  advance. 

Dear  hopes,  dear  friends,  untimely  killed ; 
Shall  grieve  for  many  a  forfeit  chance, 

And  longing  passion  unfulfilled. 
Amen!  whatever  fate  be  sent. 

Pray  God  the  heart  may  kindly  glow, 
Although  the  head  with  cares  be  bent. 

And  whitened  with  the  winter  snow. 

Come  wealth  or  want,  come  good  or  ill. 

Let  young  and  old  accept  tlieir  part, 
And  bow  before  the  Awful  Will, 

And  bear  it  with  an  honest  heart. 
Who  misses  or  who  wins  the  prize. 

Go,  lose  or  conquer  as  you  can  ; 
But  if  you  fail,  or  if  you  rise, 

Be  each,  pray  God,  a  gentleman. 

A  gentleman,  or  old  or  young! 

(Bear  kindly  with  my  humble  lays); 
The  sacred  chorus  first  was  sung 

Upon  the  first  of  Christmas  days  : 
The  shepherds  heard  it  overhead  — 

The  joyful  angels  raised  it  then: 
Glory  to  Heaven  on  high,  it  said, 

And  peace  on  earth  to  gentle  men. 

My  song,  save  tliis,  is  Httle  worth; 
I  lay  the  weary  pen  aside. 


376  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

And  wish  you  health,  and  love,  and  mirth, 
As  fits  the  solemn  Christmas-tide. 

As  fits  the  holy  Christmas  birth, 

Be  this,  good  friends,  our  carol  still,  — 

Be  peace  on  earth,  be  peace  on  earth, 
To  men  of  gentle  will. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


SAY    NOT    THE    STRUGGLE    NOUGHT 
AVAILETH. 

Say  not  the  struggle  nought  availeth, 
The  labor  and  the  wounds  are  vain, 

The  enemy  faints  not,  nor  faileth. 

And  as  things  have  been  they  remain. 

If  hopes  were  dupes,  fears  may  be  liars ; 

It  may  be,  in  yon  smoke  concealed. 
Your  comrades  chase  e'en  now  the  fliers, 

And,  but  for  you,  possess  the  field. 

For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking, 
Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gahi. 

Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  making. 
Comes  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main. 

And  not  by  eastern  windows  only, 

When  daylight  comes,  comes  in  the  light, 

In  front,  the  sun  climbs  slow,  how  slowly. 
But  westward,  look,  the  land  is  bright. 

Arthuk  Hugh  ClougS. 


THE  BALLAD   OF  AGIN  COURT.        'dll 


THE   BALLAD    OF  AGINCOURT.i 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France, 
When  we  our  sails  advance, 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  will  tarry; 
But  putting  to  the  main, 
At  Caux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train, 

Landed  King  Harry. 

And  taking  many  a  fort, 
Furnished  in  warlike  sort, 
Marcheth  tow'rds  Agincourt 

In  happy  hour; 
Skirmishing  day  by  day. 
With  those  that  stopp'd  his  way, 
Where  the  French  ^en'ral  lay 

V/ith  all  his  power. 

Which  in  his  might  of  pride, 
King  Henry  to  deride, 
His  ransom  to  provide 

To  the  king  sending. 
Which  he  neglects  the  while, 
As  from  a  nation  vile, 
Yet  with  an  angry  smile 

Their  fall  portending. 


1  This  jioem  and  the  one  which  follows  were,  by  the  oversight 
of  the  Editor,  omitted  in  preparing  the  lirst  edition  of  this  collec- 
tion, and  are  therefore  added  here  instead  of  appearing  in  their 
proper  places. 


378  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

And  turning  to  his  men, 
Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then, 
Though  they  be  one  to  ten, 

Be  not  amazed. 
Yet  have  we  well  begun, 
Battles  so  bravely  won. 
Have  ever  to  the  sun 

By  fame  been  raised. 

And  for  myself  (quoth  he). 
This  my  full  rest  shall  be, 
England  ne'er  mourn  for  me, 

No  more  esteem  me. 
Victor  I  will  remain, 
Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain, 
Never  shall  she  sustain 

Loss  to  redeem  me. 


Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell. 

When  most  their  pride  did  swell, 

Under  our  swords  they  fell, 

No  less  our  skill  is. 
Than  when  our  grandsire  great, 
Claiming  the  regal  seat, 
By  many  a  warlike  feat 

Lopped  the  French  lilies. 

The  Duke  of  York  so  dread 
The  eager  vaward  led, 
With  the  main,  Henry  sped, 

Amongst  his  Frenchmen. 
Exeter  had  the  rear, 
A  braver  man  not  there, 
O  Lord,  how  hot  they  were, 

On  the  false  Frenchmen! 


{  THE   BALLAD   OF  AGINCOURT.        379 

\ 

h  They  now  to  fight  are  gone, 

\  Armor  on  armor  shone, 

Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan, 
To  hear,  was  wonder; 

That  with  the  cries  they  make, 

The  very  earth  did  shake, 

Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake. 
Thunder  to  thunder. 

Well  it  their  age  became, 
O  noble  Erpingham, 
Which  didst  the  signal  aim 

To  our  hid  forces; 
When  from  a  meadow  by, 
Like  a  storm  suddenly, 
The  English  archery 

Stuck  the  French  horses 

With  Spanish  yew  so  strong, 
Arrows  a  cloth  yard  long, 
That  like  to  serpents  stung. 

Piercing  the  weather; 
None  from  his  fellow  starts, 
But  playing  manly  parts, 
And  like  true  English  hearts, 

Stuck  close  together. 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw. 
And  forth  their  bilbos  drew, 
And  on  the  French  they  flew, 

Not  one  was  tardy. 
Arms  were  from  shoulders  sent, 
Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent, 
Down  the  French  ])casant.s  went. 

Our  men  Avere  hardy. 


380  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

This  while  our  noble  King, 
His  broad  sword  brandishing, 
Down  the  French  host  did  ding, 

As  to  o'erwhelm  it, 
And  many  a  deep  wound  lent, 
His  arms  with  blood  besprent, 
And  many  a  cruel  dent 

Bruised  his  helmet. 

Gloucester,  that  duke  so  good, 
'       Next  of  the  royal  blood, 
For  famous  England  stood. 

With  his  brave  brother  ; 
Clarence,  in  steel  so  bright, 
Though  but  a  maiden  knight, 
Yet  in  that  furious  fight 

Scarce  such  another. 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade, 
Oxford  the  foe  invade, 
And  cruel  slaughter  made. 

Still  as  they  ran  up ; 
Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply, 
Beaumont  and  Willoughby, 
Bare  them  right  doughtily, 

Ferrers  and  Fanhope. 

Upon  Saint  Crispin's  day 
Fought  was  this  noble  fray. 
Which  fame  did  not  delay 

To  England  to  carry  ; 
O  when  shall  English  men, 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen, 


HYMN.  381 

Or  England  breed  again 

Such  a  King  Harry  ? 

MicHAKL  Drayton.* 


HYMN 

BUNG   AT    THE    COMPLETION   OF    THE    CONCORD    MON- 
UMENT,   APRIL    19,    1830. 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 

Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  tlie  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept  ; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps  ; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone  ; 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 

When  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 
To  die,  and  leave  their  children  free, 

1  Michael  Drayton  was  bom  at  Hartshull,  War^vickshire, 
England,  about  the  year  1593,  and  died  in  1031.  He  was  a  most 
voluminous  and  generally  uninteresting  verse  writer.  His  most 
extensive  work  was  an  endless  description  of  England  entitled 
the  Polyolbion.  That  he  was  not,  however,  devoid  of  poetic  fire 
und  imagination  is  amply  proved  by  this  spirited  ballad. 


382  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.* 

1  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  was  born  in  Boston  in  1803,  grad- 
uated at  Harvard  College  in  1821.  He  entered  the  ministry,  be- 
ing the  eighth  of  a  consecutive  line  of  clergymen  in  his  family. 
He  was  a  Unitarian  at  the  outset,  but  became  the  leader  subse- 
quently among  the  New  England  Transcendentalists.  He  won 
his  fame  as  an  essayist  and  philosopher,  writing  and  lecturing 
on  matters  of  public  and  social  interest  as  well  as  upon  met- 
aphysical subjects.  Besides  several  volumes  of  prose  he  pub- 
lished two  volumes  of  poems.  He  achieved  a  wide  reputation 
both  at  home  and  abroad,  and  a  few  years  since  was  put  forward 
as  a  candidate  for  the  Rectorship  of  Glasgow  University,  and 
received  a  handsome  vote.  He  lived  in  retirement  at  Concord, 
Massachusetts,  where  he  died,  April  27,  1882. 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


Addisojj,  Joseph.  page 

Version  of  the  Nineteenth  Psalm 60 

Anonymous. 

OldBaliad.  — Chevy  Chase 13 

"         "  Sir  Patrick  Spens 22 

Aytoun,  William  Edmondstoune. 

The  Burial-March  of  Dundee 192 

The  Execution  of  Montrose 220 

Barbauld,  Anna  L^titia. 

Life  and  Death 131 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett. 

The  Forced  Recruit 351 

Browning,  Robert. 

Boot  and  Saddle 229 

Home-Thoughts,  from  the  Sea 201 

How  they  Brought   the   Good   News  from   Ghent    to 

Aix 235 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp 278 

The  Lost  Leader 200 

Bryant,  William  Cullen. 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers 312 

Burns,  Robert. 

Bruce  to  his  Men  at  Bannockburn     ....         98 

Is  there,  for  Honest  Poverty 82 

John  Anderson 97 

Macpherson's  Farewell 107 

My  Bonnie  Mary 96 

My  Heart 's  in  the  Highlands 86 

The  Banks  o'  Doon 109 

Byron,  George  Gordon,  Lord. 

She  Walks  in  Beauty 153 

The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib         ....        157 

The  Isles  of  Greece 184 

To  Thomas  Moore 190 

Vision  of  Belshazzar  159 


384 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


PAGE 

Campbell,  Thomas. 

Battle  of  the  Baltic 139 

Glenara H-^ 

Hohenlinden 122 

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter 117 

The  Soldier's  Dream 126 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 141 

Clough,  Arthur  Hugh. 

Green  Fields  of  England 311 

Qua  Cursura  Ventus 336 

Say  not  the  Struggle  Nought  Availeth      .         .         .       376 
The  Ship 342 

CoLKKiDGE,  Samuel  Taylor. 

KublaKhan 167 

Collins,  William. 

Ode  written  in  MDCCXLVI 75 

CowpER,  William. 

Loss  of  the  Royal  George 80 

The  Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin    .        .         .         .86 

The  Poplar  Field 108 

The  Solitude  of  Alexander  Selkirk         .        .         .        .84 

CUKNINGHAM,    AlLAN. 

Sea-Song 135 

DoBsoN,  Austin. 

Before  Sedan 371 

Dorset,  Charles  Sackville,  Earl  of. 

Song  written  at  Sea 55 

Drayton,  Michael. 

The  Ballad  of  Agincourt 377 

Dryden,  John. 

Song  for  Saint  Cecilia's  Day,  1687         .         .        •        -57 
Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo. 

Hymn  sung  at  the  Completion  of  the  Concord  Mon- 
ument          381 

Goldsmith,  Oliver. 

An  Elegy  on  that  Glory  of  her  Sex,  Mrs.  Mary  Blaize,     79 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog         .         .         .         .77 
Gray,  Thomas. 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard    ...         65 

On  a  Favorite  Cat  drowned  in  a  Tub  of  Gold  Fishes     .     76 

The  Bard   ....  ....         70 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  385 

PAOI 

Hemans,  Felicia  Dorothea. 

Bernardo  del  Carpio 172 

The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers      ....  182 

Herbkkt,  Geo  kg  e. 

Virtue 38 

Herrick,  Robert. 

To  Blossoms    ^       ........     .39 

To  Daffodils 41 

Heyvvood,  Thomas. 


Sf 


28 


Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell. 

A  Rhymed  Lesson 308 

Dorothy  Q. :  a  Family  Portrait 297 

Grandmother's  Story  of  Bunker  Hill  Battle      .         .       267 

Lexington       .         .         .         .    ^ 26-') 

Old  Ironsides      ........       202 

The  Ballad  of  the  Oysterman 302 

The  Deacon's  Masterpiece 290 

The  Pilgrim's  Vision 256 

The  Spectre  Pig 304 

Hood,  Thomas. 

Past  and  Present 198 

Houghton,  Richard  Monckton  Milnes,  Lord. 

An  Envoy  to  an  American  Lady        ....       372. 

Ingelow,  Jean. 

The  High  Tide  on  the  Coast  of  Lincolnshire         .        .  330 

JoNSON,  Ben. 

The  Noble  Nature 37 

Keats,  .John. 

To  the  Poets 176 

^.AMB,  Charles 

Hester 188 

Lock  hart,  J.  G. 

Bernardo  and  Alphonso  ......  169 

The  Bridal  of  Andalla 161 

The  Lamentation  for  Celin    ......  150 

The  Lord  of  Butrago 166 

LONGI-'KLI.OW,    HeNKY   WaDSWORTH. 

A  Psnlm  of  Life 341 

Burial  of  the  Minnisink 255 

Hvmn  of  the  Arornviaii  Ntins  of  Bcthloliom  .         .         .  277 


386  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

PAGE 

Nuremberg ^^6 

Paul  Revere's  Ride 261 

The  Arsenal  at  Springfield 369 

The  Belfry  of  Bruges 237 

The  Cumberland 353 

The  Fiftieth  Birthday  of  Agassiz 337 

The  Happiest  Land 346 

The  Norman  Baron 230 

The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs       .        .        •         •        .288 

The  Ropewalk 348 

The  Skeleton  in  Armor 206 

The  Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports 233 

The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus 203 

Victor  Galbraith 282 

Lovelace,  Richakd. 

To  Lucasta,  on  going  to  the  Wars      ....         40 

Lowell,  James  Russell. 

Aladdin ^22 

Auf  Wiedersehen 296 

Jonathan  to  John 355 


The  Courtin' 


323 


What  Mr.  Robinson  thinks 300 

Macaulay,  Thomas  Babington,  Lord. 

Horatius •         *        *       ^^^ 

The  Armada,  a  Fragment 21- 

Valentine ^'"^'^ 

Milton,  John. 

II  Penseroso ^^ 

L'Allegro ^ 

Montrose,  James  Grahame,  Marquis  of. 

"I'll  never  Love  Thee  more" ^3 

Moore,  Thomas. 

Pro  Patria  Mori  ....  .         .       181 

The  Journey  onwards 

Norton,  Caroline  E.  S. 

The  Soldier  from  Bingea 284 

PoE,  Edgar  Allan. 

The  Raven ^^^ 

Pope,  Alexander. 

Solitude °^ 

The  Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul ^1 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  387 

PAGE 

Praed,  Winthkop  Mackwokth. 

Sir  Nicholas  at  Marston  Moor 217 

Prior,  Matthew. 

To  a  Child  of  Quality 63 

Rogers,  Samuel. 

A  Wish 108 

The  Sleeping  Beauty 96 

Scott,  Sir  Walter. 

Boat  Song 133 

Bonny  Dundee 191 

Border  Ballad 143 

Bruce  and  the  Abbot 99 

Claud  Halcro's  Song 102 

Coronach 163 

Elspeth's  Ballad 120 

Evening 110 

Glee  for  King  Charles 125 

Helvellyn 164 

Hunting  Song 105 

Hymn  for  the  Dead 156 

Jock  of  Ilazeldean 146 

Lochinvar 115 

Love  of  Country 130 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu 129 

Rebecca's  Hymn 153 

Rosabelle 127 

Song :  County  Guy 106 

Song  :  The  Cavalier 124 

Song  :  "  A  Weary  Lot  is  Thine,  Fair  Maid  "        .        .  133 

Song:  Brignal  Banks        ......  136 

Song:   "  There  is  jNIist  on  the  Mountain  "      .         .         .  Ill 

The  Crusader's  Return 119 

The  Foray 143 

The  Pride  of  Youth 153 

The  Song  of  Harold  Harfager 103 

To  the  Memory  of  F.dward,  the  Black  Prince   .        .  133 

SnAKESrEATM-..  WiLLIAM. 

Ariel's  Song 27 

Ariel's  Song 28 

A  Sea  Dirge "i^ 


388 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


PAGE 

Fairy's  Song 32 

Puck's  Song 34 

Song:  " Blow,  Blow,  thou  Winter  Wind "  .  .  .35 
Song:  "  Fear  no  more  the  Heat  o'  the  Sun  "  .  .  36 
Song:  "Hark,  Hark,  the  Lark"  .         .         .        .34 

Song :   "  How  should  I  j^our  True  Love  Know  ?  "      .         37 

Song  of  the  Fairies 33 

Song:  "Tell  me,  where  is  Fancy  Bred"  ...  32 
Song:  " Under  the  Greenwood  Tree  "  .        .         .         .29 

Winter 3]^ 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe. 

The  Cloud 178 

Winter I39 

SouTHEY,  Robert. 

The  Inchcape  Rock I47 

Tennyson,  Alfred. 

Break,  Break 34O 

New  Year's  Eve.     From  "  In  Memoriam  "    .        .        .339 

Saint  Agnes'  Eve 347 

Sir  Galahad 343 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade  ....  280 
Thackeray,  William  Makepeace. 

The  End  of  the  Play 373 

The  Rose  upon  my  Balcony 31(, 

Waller,  Edmund. 

Go,  Lovely  Rose 42 

Whittier,  Elizabeth  H. 

The  Dream  of  Argyle 227 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf. 

Barbara  Frietchie 359 

In  School-Days 32o 

WiLLSON,  ForCEYTHE. 

The  Old  Sergeant 362 

Wolfe,  Charles. 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  at  Corunna  .  .  .  132 
Wordsworth,  William. 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight 154 

Wotton,  Sir  Henry. 

Character  of  a  Happy  Life 3C 


INDEX   OF   FIRST  LINES. 


PAGg 

A.  chieftain  to  the  Highlands  bound 117 

Ah  !  Count}-  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh  ....  lOG 

A  mist  was  driving  down  the  British  Channel      .        .        .  233 

A  soldier  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers    .         .         .  284 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 330 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track 144 

At  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay    .....  353 

Attend,  all  ye  who  list  to  hear  our  noble  England's  praise  212 

At  the  gate  of  old  Granada,  when  all  its  bolts  are  barred    .  150 

A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid         .....  138 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea 135 

A  widow  bird  sate  mourning  for  her  Love        .         .         .  189 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down 202 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth 170 

Beyond  the  vague  Atlantic  deep  ......  372 

Blow,  blow,  tliou  winter  wind  .....         35 

Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away 22!) 

Break,  break,  break 340 

Breathes  there  the  man,  with  soul  so  dead  ....  130 

Bring  the  bowl  which  you  boast 125 

B\-  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood      ....  381 

Come  hither,  Evan  Cameron 220 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands 27 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 347 

Earthly  arms  no  more  uphold  him 227 

Fair  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see •*• 


390 


ISDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France  .... 

Farewell  to  Northmaven       .... 

Farewell,  ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong    . 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun 

From  Harmony,  from  heavenly  Harmony 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies     . 

God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still 

God  prosper  long  our  noble  King 

Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine    .... 

Go,  lovely  Rose ! 

Good  people  all,  of  every  sort  .... 
Good  people  all,  with  one  accord  . 
Grandmother's  mother  :  her  age,  I  guess 
Green  fields  of  England  !  wheresoe'er 
Guvener  B.  is  a  sensible  man    .... 

Hail,  day  of  Music,  da}'  of  Love 
Hail  to  the  chief  who  in  triumph  advances  !     . 
Half  a  league,  half  a  league 
Happy  the  man  whose  wish  and  care 
Hark,  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings 
Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay 
He  is  gone  on  the  mountain  .... 
Hence,  loathed  Melancholy       .... 
Hence,  vain  deluding  io3's    .... 

Here,  in  this  leafy  place 

High  deeds  achieved  of  knightly  fame 
How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught    . 
How  should  I  your  true  love  know 
How  sleep  the  Brave  who  sink  to  rest 

I  am  monarch  of  all  I  survey 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers 

I  climbed  the  dark  brow  of  the  mightj'  Helvellyn 

In  his  chamber,  weak  and  dying 

In  that  building,  long  and  low 

In  the  hour  of  twilight  shadows 

^n  the  market-place  of  Bruges 

[n  the  ranks  of  the  Austrian  j'ou  found  him 


PAGB 

.    39 

377 
.  102 

107 

.     36 

57 

.     28 

323 

.     13 

96 

.     42 

77 

.    79 

297 

.  311 

300 

.  294 

133 

.  280 

62 

.    34 

290 

.  163 

44 

.    50 

371 

.  119 

30 

.     37 

75 

.    84 

178 
.  164 

230 
.  348 

256 
.  237 

351 


i 

— i 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


391 


In  the  valley  of  tlie  Pegnitz,  where  across  broad  meadow 

lands 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 

I  remember,  I  remember 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty 

It  don't  seem  hardly  rijrht,  John 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 

It  was  a  tall  young  oysterman  lived  by  the  rivi 

It  was  fifty  years  ago   .... 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus    . 

It  was  the  stalwart  butcher  man  . 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John 

John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us 


er-side 


Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Life  !  I  know  not  what  thou  art 

Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 

Lords,  kniglils,  and  squires,  the  numerous  band 

March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill     .... 

M}'  boat  is  on  the  shore        .... 

My  dear  and  only  love,  I  praj' 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men    . 

My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands    .... 


32G 
167 
198 
235 

82 
355 

37 
302 
337 
203 
304 


97 

86 

200 

240 

131 

261 

63 

143 
108 
190 
43 
343 


Nobly,  nobly  Cape  Saint  Vincent  to  the  northwest  died  away  201 
Ko  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea  ....  147 
Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note  ....  132 
Now  baud  your  tongue,  baith  wife  and  carle  .  .  .  120 
Now  the  hungry  lion  roars 34 


0,  Brignal  banks  are  wild  and  fair 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North      .... 

O  for  the  voice  of  tliat  wild  horn 

0  heard  ye  yon  pibroch  sound  sad  in  the  gale 

0  listefi,  listen,  ladies  gay        .         .        .         . 


136 
139 
183 
113 
127 


392 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low    . 

On  sunny  slope  and  beechen  swell 

0  ship,  ship,  ship 

Our  bugles  sang  truce  —  for  the  night  cloud  had 

Over  hill,  over  dale 

0,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  West 

Pack,  clouds,  away,  and  welcome  day     . 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu  .... 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood     .... 


Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky    . 

Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa  !  lay  the  golden  cushion 

Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  King      ... 


Say  not  the  struggle  nought  availeth 
Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled  . 
She  walks  in  beaut}',  like  the  night 
She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 
Sleep  on,  and  dream  of  Heaven  awhile    . 
Slowly  the  mist  o'er  the  meadow  was  creeping 
Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street    . 
Some  words  on  language  may  be  well  applied 
Sound  the  fife,  and  cry  the  slogan    . 
Speak,  speak,  thou  fearful  guest 
Still  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road 
Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers    . 

Tell  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind 

Tell  me  where  is  fancy  bred     .... 

That  day  of  wrath,  that  dreadful  day 

The  abbot  on  the  threshold  stood 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high 

The  Carrier  cannot  sing  to-day  the  ballads  . 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece 

The  king  sits  in  Dunfermline  town  . 


lower'd 


dowr 


PAOB 

.  314 
122 

.  255 
342 

.  126 
32 

.  115 

28 

.  129 
153 

.  339 

IGl 

.     70 

376 
.  98 
•  153 
.  154 
96 
,  265 

288 
,  308 

192 
,  206 

320 
.     38 

341 

40 

32 

150 

99 

157 

182 

362 

65 

184 

22 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


393 


The  King  was  on  his  throne         ..... 

The  last  of  our  steers  on  the  board  has  been  spread 

The  little  gate  was  reached  at  last        .... 

The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year 

The  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  tower 

The  play  is  done ;  the  curtain  drops 

The  po(iIars  are  felled,  farewell  to  the  shade 

There  is  mist  on  the  mountain  and  night  on  the  vale 

There  sat  one  day  in  quiet 

The  rose  upon  my  balcony 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high  .        .        :        .        . 

The  sun  is  rising  dinilj'  red 

The  sun  upon  the  lake  is  low        ..... 

Tiie  warrior  bowed  his  crested  head 
This  is  the  Arsenal.     From  floor  to  ceiling 
'T  is  like  stirring  living  embers,  when,  at  eighty,  one 
members  ....... 

To  all  you  ladies  now  on  land      .  .... 

To  liorse,  to  horse.  Sir  Jsicholas!       .... 

Toll  for  the  Brave        ...  .... 

To  the  Lords  of  Convention  't  was  Claver'se  who  spoke 
'T  was  on  a  lofty  vase's  side 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 

Under  the  walls  of  Monterey        ..... 
Up  from  the  meadows  ricli  with  corn 

Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay     . 

When  he  who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the  name 

When  icicles  hang  by  tiie  wall 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved 

When  I  was  a  l)egLrarly  boy 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die 

When  the  dying  tianie  of  day  . 

Where  the  bee  sucks  there  suck  I  .         .         . 

While  the  dawn  on  the  mountain  was  misty  and  gray 

Why  Wfc|)  _\e  by  llie  tide,  ladie? 


PAGE 

.  159 

143 
.  290 

312 
.  330 

373 
.  108 

111 
.  346 

310 
.     60 

103 
.  110 

172 
.  369 

267 
.     55 

217 
.     80 

I'Jl 
.     76 

29 

.  282 

359 

.     61 

105 

.  181 

31 

.  158 

322 
.  188 

277 
.    28 

124 
.   14C 


i 


394  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGB 

With  some  good  ten  of  his  chosen  men,  Bernardo  hath  ap- 
peared          169 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon  ....       109 

Ye  mariners  of  England 141 

You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon  ....  278 
Your  horse  is  faint,  my  King  —  my  Lord!  ....  166 
You  spotted  snakes  with  double  tongue    ....         33 


18993 


':^S^^ -'v 


Si^^  i. 


r  X>?> 


